


Thieves Like Us

by murderousfiligree



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Nen, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Sex, Let Everyone Say Fuck, M/M, Organized Crime, Smoking, be gay do crime, healthy sibling relationships because fuck you i said so, hxhbb, hxhbb2020, implied choking kink, mostly implied parental abuse, several minor character deaths, very brief mention of leopika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: Illumi is the proprietor of Needle Eye, a tattoo and piercing parlour doubling as a front for the Zoldyck crime syndicate. When an eccentric customer claims to possess insider information about the Phantom Troupe, he begins to entertain thoughts of revenge.
Relationships: Hisoka & Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer, Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck & Zoldyck Family, Kurapika & Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 131
Kudos: 378
Collections: Hxhbb





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the Hunter x Hunter world as it would have developed without Nen. In other words, the geography and currency are the same, but culturally things are more similar to our own world. 
> 
> Illumi, Hisoka, and Chrollo maintain their canon ages, but I have taken some small liberties with the ages of minor characters. In a universe where the human body has limitations I don’t think Kikyo Zoldyck would want to be pregnant for 3 years straight, and I always thought Alluka and Kalluto were younger than their canon ages anyway. Here Killua is 12, Milluki is 18, Alluka is about 9, and Kalluto is about 7. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers, and to the ‘clownfucker support group’ chat on tumblr/telegram (https://t.me/clownfuckersupport) for helping me workshop some of the details for this.
> 
> Lastly, this fic is in no way related to the 1974 film of the same name (I've never seen it. I nicked the title from [ the New Order song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fc1ldXDJicY), which is a bop).

The door chimed as it opened. 

Illumi’s gaze flitted to the man in the doorway and back to the customer in front of him. The former was unfamiliar; he had a pointed, foxlike face, with heavy-lidded eyes that made him want to reach for the knife in his boot—but there was no need for that just yet. Plenty of unscrupulous figures frequented his shop, and he wouldn’t make any money if he killed them on sight. Still, the man was unnerving, and it took a lot to make Illumi Zoldyck feel unnerved. 

“Just a minute,” called Illumi. He finished screwing the ball onto the horseshoe-shaped barbell and peeled off his latex gloves. “How does that feel?” 

The customer wrinkled her nose. “Like the world’s sharpest booger. How d’ya think it feels?” 

Assuming the woman’s comment to be rhetorical, Illumi silently tossed his gloves into the bin. He snatched a sheet of aftercare instructions from a pile on the front counter, using the opportunity to steal another glance at his visitor. The man was tall, even taller than him, with bright red hair and an equally bright jacket made of violet pleather. He looked to be in his early twenties, but Illumi had never been a good judge of age. 

“Here you are.” He handed the aftercare instructions to the woman with the new septum ring. “And remember— _two_ saline soaks per day for _three_ weeks, no less. Then once a day for the following eight weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She folded the instructions and pocketed them. “I’ve done this before. I don’t want my nose fallin’ off anymore than you do.” 

“Good.” Illumi stepped behind the register. The woman passed in front of the red-haired man but didn’t seem to pay him any mind. “That’ll be 9500 jenny.” 

She fished a 10,000J bill out of her purse and set it on the counter. “Keep the change.” 

“Thank you.” Not much of a tip, but better than nothing, he supposed. 

“Don’t mention it. Catch ya next time!” 

The door chimed again, and he was alone with the man. 

“Can I help you?” Illumi’s voice was even, but his hand reached for the pistol under the counter. It was right where he’d left it, and he was glad for the cold reassurance of metal against his skin. 

“That depends,” said the man. “Are you Illumi Zoldyck?” 

The smile that touched the man’s yellow eyes said he already knew damn well who he was, but Illumi indulged him nevertheless: “Yes, I am.” 

“Oh, _good_.” The man’s voice dropped in pitch, but remained smooth as silk; it was not a husky voice, but there was a certain sensuality to it that sent a cold thrill down his spine. Illumi tacked five years onto his age estimate. The man was at least his age, probably older. 

“I take it you are not here for a tattoo?” 

“Mmm.” The man leaned across the counter until his face was inches from Illumi’s chest. He looked up through black lashes, his expression almost demure. “That depends on your answer to my next question.” 

Illumi narrowly suppressed the urge to step back.

“Tell me,” he continued, “are you hiring?” 

“Hiring?”

“Yes. I have a variety of skills which I’m sure your organization would find...useful.” 

“Ah.” Illumi’s fingers curled around the butt of the gun. A group of boys passed in front of the shop, their animated shouts muffled by the bulletproof glass. “I’m afraid we aren’t hiring.” 

The man’s smile did not falter. “You sure?” 

“If I gave every trigger-happy idiot who wanders into my shop a place on our payroll, my family would be bankrupt in less than a year.” 

He laughed at that. The laugh was every bit as chilling as his voice, and somehow just as musical. “Touché. Then I suppose I am here to talk tattoos, after all.”  
  
Illumi tentatively released his grip on the gun. “Did you have a design in mind?” 

“Not really.” The man shimmied out of his jacket, revealing a plain white crew-neck that was at least one size too small; his torso was trim, but his arms were bulging out of the sleeves as if desperate to escape. “I need something covered up.” 

“Ah.” Illumi eyed him carefully. The man had no visible tattoos. “I’ll need to see it.” 

“Of course.” He took a sudden step to the left, skirting the counter. Illumi’s hand was back on the gun before his foot touched the floor; before he could take a second step, it was pointed squarely at his head. 

“Move and I shoot.” 

The man still wore that same insufferable smile. Illumi was beginning to wonder if his face was stuck that way. 

“Now, Illu—may I call you Illu?” 

“No.”  
  
“Illumi, then,” he purred. “If you found my presence threatening you should have let me know. Allow me to assuage your worries.” He lifted his shirt to the waist and slowly turned around. There was no gun in his waistband. 

“Hands on your head. Face me.” 

The man obliged without protest. Closing the distance between them, Illumi thrust the gun against the juncture of his jaw and neck, sliding his free hand along the man’s outer thigh.

“You are alone?” he asked, retrieving a leather wallet from one of the front pockets. The opposite pocket was empty, save for a tube of what looked like lipgloss. 

“There’s no one outside waiting to kill you, if that’s what you mean.” 

Illumi flipped open the wallet, careful to keep the pressure of the gun constant. In the driver’s license photo, the man’s hair was cotton candy blue. His name was Hisoka Morow, and he was older than Illumi’s second guess—two years shy of thirty. 

He slipped the wallet back into the man’s pocket. “Keep your hands on your head and turn around.” 

The man turned again, his back to Illumi. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. “Do you get this, ah...personal, with all of your customers, or am I special?” 

Illumi ignored him. Finding the man’s rear pockets empty, he kneeled down, letting the muzzle of the gun trace the spine while he checked the sides of the man’s legs. There was no knife strapped beneath the blue denim, and it would be impossible to conceal a weapon inside the red stiletto heels. 

Satisfied that he was unarmed, Illumi clicked the safety on his pistol and shoved it into his own waistband. “You can put your arms down, Mr. Morow.” 

“Please,” said the man, dropping his arms to his sides, “call me Hisoka.” 

“Hisoka, then. Like I said, I will need to see your tattoo.” Illumi gestured to the rear of the parlour. “If you need privacy, there is a back room.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Hisoka remained facing the wall, as if admiring the flash designs which covered it from ceiling to floor. Needle Eye had been in business for nearly five years, and its proprietor was a prolific artist. 

“Hisoka?”

The man turned his head and looked askance at Illumi. There was danger in that look, lurking beneath his expression like a carnivore in dark waters. “You drew these?” 

Illumi crossed his arms. Danger he could handle, but dawdling was unbearable. “Yes. Are you going to show me your tattoo or not?” 

“I am, of course.” 

After another long look at the wall, he finally peeled off the white crew neck. What was underneath it made Illumi draw his gun a second time. 

A twelve-legged spider sprawled across the man’s upper back, stark black against pale skin. Illumi pointed the pistol at the symbol on its abdomen, a bright red number four. Were he inclined to impulse decisions, he might have killed the man then and there; as it was, he kept the gun’s safety engaged. 

“I know it won’t be cheap to cover.” Hisoka was watching him, shirt in hand, evidently unfazed by the gun’s reappearance. “But I’m afraid I have no other choice.” 

Illumi’s eyes darted to the door and back again. The street was empty, but that didn’t mean the other spiders weren’t nearby. “You’ve defected from the Troupe?” 

Letting out a low chuckle, Hisoka turned around; his chest, like his arms, was free of tattoos. “Not yet.” 

“But you will?” 

“Oh, yes.” He licked his lips. “But before I leave, I thought you might benefit from having a man on the inside, hmm? I’ve been with the Troupe for more than two years. I know the faces and names of every member, and the whereabouts of several bases.”

“You are selling that information?” 

“Yes.” 

Illumi slowly lowered the gun. If there were going to be an ambush, it would have happened by now. Besides, very few valuables were kept in the shop; aside from his own life, for which his father would pay a decent ransom, there was nothing the Troupe would deem worthy of stealing. 

“What is your price?” said Illumi. 

“So you’re interested?” 

“Yes.” 

Hisoka ran a hand through his hair (an arduous process, considering the amount of product in it). The scent of hairspray was nearly as strong as the man’s perfume, which was almost sickeningly sweet, like something a young girl would wear. He was dangerous—that much was certain—but otherwise, Illumi wasn’t sure what to make of the man.

“Hmm,” said Hisoka. “As for my price, I have something in mind.”

“Name it.” 

“Ah-ah,” he chided. “You already know more about me than I about you, Illumi. And with your resources I am sure you will find out everything there is to know about me before the night is out. I’d learn more about you, before I tell you anything else. Quid pro quo, and all.” 

Illumi cocked his head. It was no use threatening him with the gun; the man didn’t have the good sense to be afraid. “What exactly did you want to know?” 

“Too many things to discuss here.” Hisoka glanced at the door. His expression shifted from something threatening to something more subtle, almost sly. “Would you object to discussing the matter over dinner?” 

Illumi blinked. Was he…? Yes, there was no doubt about it. This Hisoka Morow, avowed turncoat of the Phantom Troupe, was coming onto him. In fact, he probably had been the entire time; Illumi was not the best at reading the intentions of others, even in the most favorable circumstances. 

Still processing this new facet of their conversation, Illumi produced a clipped, monosyllabic response: “Yes.” 

“Yes, you’ll go to dinner with me, or—?”  
  
“Yes, I object.” 

Hisoka’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “A shame. Over drinks, then?” 

Illumi took a deep breath. His first instinct was to say no—the man disconcerted him, and he hated feeling off balance—but the Phantom Troupe was his family’s greatest rival, and a chance like this was unlikely to present itself again. 

“There is a bar on the corner of 82nd and 9th,” said Illumi. “Called Mike’s.” 

Hisoka smiled. “I know the place.” 

“Be there at ten o’clock tonight. We will discuss the details of your payment.” 

“I can’t wait.” Hisoka pulled the shirt down over his head, concealing the tattoo again. Now that he knew what to look for, Illumi could see the dark legs branching out beneath white fabric. “You’ll be alone, of course?” 

“Yes. I expect the same from you.” 

“Naturally.” Plucking his jacket from the narrow bench by the shopfront, Hisoka pressed two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. “Until tonight.” 

Illumi inclined his head. “Do not be late.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The door chimed once more, and Illumi was alone.   
  


* * *

  
“Well, his record’s far from clean. Two counts of aggravated assault, and a long history of disorderly conduct, petty theft, vandalism...” Milluki paused to inhale a handful of potato chips, gesturing at the screen as he chewed. Hisoka’s mugshot was not unlike his driver’s license photo—it bore that ubiquitous smile—but his hair was closer to magenta than to blue. Illumi vaguely wondered what his natural hair colour could be. 

“He’s spent seven years locked up altogether, three of those being in juvie,” continued Milluki. “Most recent sentence ended three years ago. You said he took up with the Phantom Troupe around then?” 

“He claims to have been a member for two years.” 

“Well, the timeline checks out, at any rate.” Milluki spun his chair around and looked up at Illumi. He was silhouetted against the largest, central monitor; the glow of the other two, which flanked him on either side, made him look exceedingly pale. “You said you’re meeting this guy tonight?” 

“Yes. At Mike’s.” 

Milluki brushed a few crumbs from his pink button-up shirt. “You told Father yet?” 

“I am not going to.” Illumi shoved his hands into his back pockets, still absorbing the information on the screens. The left displayed Hisoka’s employment history, which was considerably shorter than his criminal record; before his last stint in prison, he'd worked as a bouncer at one of Yorknew’s most prominent gay bars. Illumi silently marveled at never having seen him there. Surely he would have noticed such a man. 

“You’re not going to?” echoed Milluki. 

“Not at first. I will set up a meeting with Father if all goes well, of course. I do not wish to get his hopes up, in the event this Hisoka is not useful to us after all.” He shot Milluki a look. “You are not to tell him either.” 

“I won’t, I won’t.” Milluki grinned at him. “You really think we can pull this off? Taking down the Troupe, I mean.” 

“Of course. Their extermination is a matter of when, not if; last year’s assault made certain of that. If Hisoka fails us, we will find another way.” 

“You make it sound so easy.” 

Illumi shrugged. He fingered the knife in his pocket. “Easy or not, it will be done.”   
  


* * *

  
Milluki’s apartment was three floors down from Illumi’s (the Zoldycks owned the building, along with several other pieces of real estate in the Yorknew area). A few months prior, just one week after his eighteenth birthday, Milluki had moved out of his family’s Yorknew residence—purportedly seeking independence, but Illumi suspected he just wanted more room for his ever-growing collection of pornographic body pillows. 

Though he was far from the favorite sibling, Illumi had to admit that having his brother close by was convenient. Being able to find out anything about anyone was invaluable in their line of work, and Milluki was the best. His lack of combat experience made him a liability in the event of a confrontation, but no one was stupid enough to challenge a member of the Zoldyck syndicate.

Well. No one save the Phantom Troupe. 

With three hours left before his meeting (he refused to think of it as a date), Illumi mounted the stairs, deep in thought. Though the Troupe had been silent since the incident, his animosity had not diminished over the past ten months. That they’d interfered with the heist was bad enough—they lost well over a billion jenny that day—but his grandfather’s injury was unforgivable. Zeno Zoldyck had since taken charge of the estate in Padokia, as the presence of the butlers would ensure his comfort and safety. He could never work in the field again, of course. Wheelchairs were not conducive to dodging bullets. 

A yowling sound broke Illumi’s reverie. Was it time to feed Judas already? 

As he opened the door to his apartment, a black cat nearly scrambled past him; accustomed to this, Illumi blocked the escape with his shin, slipped into the entryway, and closed the door behind him. 

“There is no escape,” Illumi said solemnly. Judas considered him with big, golden eyes, and yowled once more. 

“I know.” Illumi scooped up the animal and started towards the kitchen. “Your dinner is overdue.” 

After giving Judas another half can of wet food (which he began devouring with gusto), Illumi made himself a peanut butter sandwich and settled onto the couch with his laptop. The Zoldyck Group’s chief financial officer had sent him their quarterly report, and he wanted to review it before the day was done. 

He had just finished reading the report and was typing up a reply to the CFO’s email when his pocket began to buzz. He plucked his phone out, glanced at the caller ID, and answered it immediately. 

“Hello, Mother.” 

“Illumi Zoldyck, you're late for dinner again!” 

Though he and Milluki lived separately from their parents and younger siblings, they were still expected to attend meals twice a week. In the wake of his encounter with Hisoka, it had completely slipped his mind. 

“Sorry, Mother, but I won't be coming tonight. Something came up.” 

Kikyo huffed. “Something more important than your family?” 

“On the contrary, Mother." He set his empty plate aside and leaned back against the couch. It was a comfortable piece of furniture, made of soft black leather, and large enough to fill his sizable living room. "My meeting will serve our family's best interests.” 

“A meeting? You didn't tell me about any meeting.” 

“It is a recent development. It may go nowhere, and I did not want to worry you needlessly.” 

“So secretive, Illu!" Her tone carried a hint of reproach. "Tell me how it goes.” 

“You will be the first to know. Well, after Father, of course.” 

“Of course.” There was a shout in the background, followed by: “Killua wants to speak with you.” 

Illumi smiled. “Put him on.” 

There was a rustle as the phone shifted hands. “Hey, Illu.” Killua’s voice was deeper than usual, but whether the drop in pitch was due to puberty or to an affectation of maturity was anyone’s guess. Twelve was a tender age, and his brother seemed increasingly concerned with maintaining a disaffected persona. Illumi was just glad he wasn’t too cool for his oldest brother yet. 

“How are you, Killu?” 

“Good. I made an A on that test I told you about.” 

“I am not surprised,” said Illumi. “You are smarter than you give yourself credit for.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Oh, and Alluka’s playing the lead in the school play! She’s a really great actress, you gotta see her.” 

There was a distant squeal: “Hey, I wanted to tell Illu myself!” 

Then, from Kikyo: “Sit _down_ , Alluka!” 

“Oops,” said Killua. “Well, I’d better go. Tell Judas hi for me.”

“I certainly will. Goodnight, Killu.” 

“Night.” 

Illumi slipped the phone into his pocket and resumed typing the email. Crepuscular light was seeping in through his large glass window, casting the room in shades of blue. It was not night yet, but it was getting close; another hour and it would be time to head to Mike’s.

A chirping sound from the foot of the couch alerted him to Judas’s presence. 

“All done with dinner?” Illumi patted the cushion twice. “Come on, then.” 

The cat leaped, sailed over the cushion, and landed perfectly in the centre of his laptop keyboard. A rapidly growing line of gibberish appeared at the bottom of his email. 

“Judas,” he sighed. “You are not helping.” 

Carefully extracting the laptop, Illumi allowed the animal to settle on his lap. He scratched between the pointed ears with a black-painted nail.

“Killua said hello,” he informed him. “And I am going out tonight. So be good.” 

Judas purred thunderously and made no such promise. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos on the first chapter!

Mike’s was a brisk twelve minute walk from his apartment, eight blocks south and two blocks west. He arrived four minutes early to a bar which was near half-full; not a bad crowd for a Tuesday night. An MMA fight was on one television and a volleyball game on the other. Not particularly interested in either sport, Illumi ordered a glass of red wine and settled at a corner table, furthest away from the public entrance. 

In the dim light, he could see the whole room. It was an unremarkable establishment, save perhaps for the mural of a large black dog on the wall opposite the bar; the dog’s head was tilted back, red tongue lolling wildly, the name “Mike” printed on its collar in white block letters. 

Hisoka arrived at ten o’clock on the dot. 

The man had changed clothes since the afternoon: his black button-up had so many buttons undone as to barely cover his torso at all, and his pants, mottled with pink leopard print, were tight to the point of obscenity. Even over the din of the crowd, Illumi could hear the click of his pointed boots. He turned more than a few heads. 

“Illumi,” he called, “fancy seeing you here.”

Illumi took a very large sip of his wine. Since realizing Hisoka had been flirting with him, he’d deliberately avoided examining his own desires. He wasn’t certain whether he wanted to kiss or kill the man, but Hisoka stirred something inside him that he preferred to keep subdued; if he’d learned anything in his years working for his father, it was that mixing business and pleasure never ended well for either. 

Hisoka approached the bar first—presumably to order his drink—then swaggered over to the table, pulled out the chair opposite Illumi, and sat down. 

“So,” he began, “here we are.” 

“Here we are.” Illumi folded his hands on the table. “You have questions for me?” 

“Yes.” Hisoka leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Do you always drink red wine?” 

“No.” 

“What other drinks do you like?” 

Illumi dipped his nails into the waxed surface of the table. He could refuse to answer personal questions, but he didn’t want to seem uncooperative; besides, the question was innocuous enough. “I am partial to whiskey.” 

“Ah, I see.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you drink your coffee black too, hm?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

A waitress approached with a tall pink glass, and Hisoka thanked her as she deposited the drink. “Personally, I'm partial to daiquiris," he explained. "And I like my coffee with cream and sugar, just so you know.” 

Illumi wasn’t sure what possible future included making coffee for Hisoka, but he tried not to think too hard about it. He lifted his near-empty glass to the waitress. 

“I’ll be right out with another, Mr. Zoldyck,” she said. 

Hisoka’s eyes flicked to the woman and back. “Are all the staff here, ah…?” 

“Yes. My father owns this bar. Were you expecting a neutral meeting place?” 

“I always aim to expect the unexpected.” He plucked the cherry from the top of his drink and popped it into his mouth. “Have you given much thought to covering my tattoo?” 

“I have not given any thought to the subject matter, but whatever it is, it will need to cover most of your back. Probably the top of your shoulders as well. Even then, covering something so dark will be difficult. You would benefit from a few sessions of laser.” 

“You _are_ the best, Illumi.” Hisoka took a sip of his drink. “I'll do whatever you suggest. Is laser expensive?”

“Yes. Would you...” Illumi trailed off as the waitress arrived with his wine. He took the glass with a nod, absently fingering the stem. “Would you like the tattoo as part of your payment? Including a few sessions of laser, it would be worth at least half a million jenny.” 

“As part of my payment? Of course.” Hisoka shifted in his seat, foot brushing Illumi’s calf under the table. “What else can you offer me?” 

“The price is yours to name.” 

“Mmm.” Hisoka licked his lips. “I’ve no love of luxury, but I need money to do much of anything in this city. How about fifty million jenny?” 

“Done,” said Illumi. He’d been expecting to pay at least that much, and such a paltry amount would hardly be missed from the Zoldyck fortune. 

“Delightful.” Polishing off his daiquiri, Hisoka set the empty glass aside. He squinted at Illumi. “Where are _your_ tattoos, by the way?”

Illumi was wearing a long-sleeved viscose shirt, pale lavender in color but opaque. Given his occupation, people tended to assume his clothes concealed heavily inked skin, though the presumption was far from the truth. “I do not have any tattoos,” he said.

“None?” 

“None.”

“Why not?” 

Illumi sipped at his wine. “I have never encountered a design I liked enough to warrant one. Just because I enjoy creating artwork for others does not mean I want any for myself.” 

“I suppose.” Hisoka’s eyes dropped to the golden stud in the centre of Illumi’s bottom lip, then drifted sideways to one of his heavily studded ears. “Piercings are a different matter, hmm?” 

“Yes,” said Illumi. “Now, are we done discussing your payment, or do you have other demands?” 

“Oh, there’s just one more thing.” 

“What?” 

Hisoka curled his index finger in a "come hither" gesture. Though faintly concerned with the possibility that the man was trying to kiss him, Illumi obeyed.

“What do you know about the leader of the Phantom Troupe?” With only a few inches separating their faces, Hisoka’s voice was low but audible. Illumi could smell the alcohol on his breath; if their proximity made the heat rise to his face, he at least had the excuse of the wine.

“I know his name is Chrollo Lucilfer, I know he is from Meteor City, and I know everything that is available regarding his criminal record.” 

“Do you know what he looks like?” 

“I have seen his picture, yes.” 

“Good. Then you'll be able to carry out my request." Hisoka's gaze fell to the table; when it rose again, his eyes had grown bright and strange, and Illumi scarcely repressed a shiver. "Kill the rest of the Troupe however you like, but leave Chrollo untouched. I want him alive, or I will consider our business unfinished.” 

Illumi frowned. Letting Chrollo live was certain to cause them trouble later on; even one surviving spider ensured eventual retaliation. Still, it was best not to refuse Hisoka's request outright. “I can try," he began, "but I cannot guarantee—” 

“Guarantee it,” said Hisoka, “or I walk.” 

Illumi blinked. Why was this man so insistent on saving the spider’s head? Had they grown close over the past two years? And if that was the case, why was he betraying him? 

Though he had no inkling of these answers, he knew that he did not want Hisoka Morow as an enemy. By declining the agreement, he was not only losing information about the Troupe, but potentially gaining a dangerous adversary. If the operation went south and Chrollo was injured or killed...well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. 

“You have my personal guarantee that no harm will come to Chrollo Lucilfer,” said Illumi, after a pause. 

“Then we have a deal, Illumi Zoldyck.” Hisoka smiled and held out his hand. Illumi found the grip firm, the touch warm and dry. 

“There are three Phantom Troupe bases in Yorknew,” he said, releasing Illumi’s hand. “I've written the addresses on a piece of paper which is currently in my pocket. I can also text you the addresses, if you prefer.” 

“Paper is fine.” Illumi used several encrypted messaging apps, but Milluki had taught him that any information shared digitally could be stolen by a sufficiently motivated person. Paper notes weren't foolproof, but they were preferable. 

Hisoka retrieved the note and slid it across the table, face down. Illumi gave it a cursory glance to ensure the addresses were plausible, then slipped it into his own pocket. 

“I suppose you’ll send a team to each address and kill whoever you find?” ventured Hisoka. 

“I cannot say.” Illumi leaned back into his chair. He was considerably more relaxed now that Hisoka had given him something of use; the wine wasn’t hurting, either. “I will not be in charge of the logistics of the raid. That duty falls to my father. I will do as he decides.” 

“Ah. Then I have a suggestion for your father, if you don’t mind passing it along.” 

Illumi arched an eyebrow. 

“I've given you the addresses as a gesture of goodwill, but you’ll throw that note in the trash if you have any sense.” Hisoka leaned back, mirroring Illumi’s pose. “Attacking the spiders on their turf is...unwise.” 

“And I suppose you have a better idea?” 

“Oh, yes.” Hisoka’s foot brushed his calf again; Illumi withdrew his legs to discourage the contact.

“Are you going to enlighten me?” 

Glancing sidewise at the diminishing crowd, Hisoka continued: “Lure the spiders to you. You’ll have something—or someone—that they want, and I will lead them there.” 

Illumi finished his wine and set the glass aside. Home field advantage could not be denied, but he was suspicious of Hisoka’s motives. If adequately prepared for an ambush, the Troupe could cause a lot of damage. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t.” Hisoka's eyes flashed with glee. “But you are free to decline my offer.” 

Well, at least he was honest about _something_. Illumi took a deep breath. “I assume you have a detailed plan?” 

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about this for a long while, you see.” 

“Then walk me through it. I will pass it along to my father, though I cannot promise he will agree.” 

“That’s fine. I’ll help you regardless of the plan, so long as my terms are met.” 

Illumi nodded curtly. “They will be.” 

“Good.” Hisoka planted his hands on the table and leaned slowly across. “So suppose I let it slip to the spiders that the oldest and most renowned Zoldyck stronghold has been left unguarded for the week…”   
  


* * *

  
Silva Zoldyck frowned at the papers on his desk. 

Illumi sat across from him, watching as he read the proposal through. Two days had passed since the meeting at Mike’s, and he’d spent every waking hour drafting it; he’d made some minor adjustments to Hisoka’s plan, fleshing it out with personnel recommendations and an annotated map of the Padokia estate, but it was mostly unchanged. Hisoka may be unhinged, but he wasn’t stupid. It was a good plan, probably their best shot at destroying the Troupe. 

“And your contact came up with this?” said Silva. 

“Yes.” 

The man gathered the papers into a neat stack and set them aside. The lines on his face were sharp in the afternoon light. As a corner office with two glass walls, the room allowed a fine view of the Yorknew skyline, but Illumi found himself too occupied by his father’s expression to pay attention to it. He was accustomed to the view, at any rate; despite the nameplate on the desk (which read “Silva Zoldyck, C.E.O.”), Illumi spent more time in the office than anyone else. Silva was a brilliant businessman and strategist, but he hated the tedium of office work. 

“I don’t trust it.”

“It,” said Illumi, “or him?” 

“Him, of course.” Silva shook his head. “I can find no flaw in the plan.” 

“I share your reservations. But in the absence of a better strategy, I recommend we move forward. This opportunity may never come again.” 

Silva’s eyes drifted to a point above Illumi’s head. He seemed deep in thought. “We need to conceal part of the plan from him. Give him a false map. Make him underestimate our manpower. Something of the sort.” His gaze snapped back to Illumi. “Has he seen this report?” 

“No.” 

“Good. Then I’ll need you to make another one. Even if the Troupe is prepared for an ambush, they don't need to know its specifics.” 

Illumi retrieved a ballpoint pen and a notebook from his bag. He took notes while his father verbally outlined the changes; by the time the man was done speaking, he had a rough draft of the false report. The differences were subtle, but terribly clever, and almost certain to give their people the needed advantage. 

His father never ceased to impress him. No matter how smart the head of the spiders claimed to be, he was surely no match for the best mind in the Zoldyck family.   
  


* * *

  
“So, leader, what do you think?” 

Chrollo gave Hisoka a measured look. The man had a conniving air, and his first instinct was to dismiss such a wild story; but in the two years since he’d joined up with the spiders, Hisoka had remained loyal. A shifty demeanor did not belie his actions, and he had always acted in the best interests of the Troupe. 

“It sounds too good to be true,” he replied. “Illumi Zoldyck just happened to mention that the mansion would be unguarded?” 

“I had to loosen his tongue with wine, of course.” Hisoka shifted his feet, idly moving the rolling chair. The room was sparsely decorated; three mismatched chairs were scattered around the concrete floor. There was a single couch—a rather nice one, with soft red fabric—on which Chrollo sat, one leg resting on his knee. There were no windows, and the fluorescent lights emitted a low, constant buzz. It was one of their lesser used meeting places, just barely large enough to fit the entire Troupe. Feitan, Uvogin, Pakunoda and Machi were there now, the only four who had answered the summons on such short notice. The latter was glaring at Hisoka; Feitan was watching him with mild interest. Uvo and Paku paid him little mind, evidently more concerned with what Chrollo had to say. 

“It’s obviously a trap,” said Machi. 

“Oh, yes,” agreed Hisoka. “It almost certainly is.” 

“Then why are you wasting our time?” said Paku. She kept her eyes fixed on Chrollo as she spoke. “The Zoldycks are not easy targets.” 

“And since when has ease been a factor, Paku?” Chrollo tilted his head. “It’s been a long while since we’ve had a genuine challenge.”

Paku did not respond. Uvo had acquired a savage grin. “Let them ambush us,” he said. “We’ll kill them all then rob them blind. Without the Zoldycks breathing down our neck, this city will be ours!” 

“We need more information,” Feitan cut in. “Can you arrange to meet with the Zoldyck again?” 

“Already done,” said Hisoka. “Illumi asked me to stop by his shop tomorrow. I'll press him for more details about the Padokia estate then.” 

“And why are you and Illumi so chummy all of sudden?” demanded Machi. “He didn’t climb to the top of one of the world’s largest crime syndicates by trusting people like you.” 

“He didn’t climb anywhere,” Feitan pointed out. “The Zoldycks aren’t like us; they value bloodlines more than competency.”

“If Illumi were incompetent, Silva wouldn’t allow him to access such sensitive information,” said Paku. “The Zoldycks are clever. We should be cautious.” She turned pointedly to Hisoka. “Are you going to answer Machi’s question?” 

There was a beat of silence. Hisoka licked his lips. “If you must know, Illumi was quite taken with me. After our little talk we went back to his apartment, and, ah...well, how much detail would you like, Machi?” 

“You _slept_ with him?” she exclaimed. 

“Yes. I’d seen his face at The Heretic many times, so I knew he was...receptive to male attention. When I saw him alone at Mike’s…” Hisoka gave a coquettish shrug. “I used my assets.” 

Machi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did he see your tattoo?” 

“Of course not. I kept most of my clothes on. Illumi, on the other hand…” 

“That’s enough.” Chrollo’s voice was soft, but at the sound of it the others fell silent. “We’ll reconvene the day after tomorrow to see if Hisoka has learned anything else of use. Either way, we make our move next week. All of us will be present at our next meeting.” He rose to his feet. “I'll keep you informed of the location. Dismissed.” 

There was a general murmur of assent; the spiders trickled out of the room one by one, until only two remained. Chrollo retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his coat’s inner pocket and offered one to Hisoka. The man took it wordlessly. 

“Tell me,” said Chrollo, fishing for his lighter, “what is your honest opinion of Illumi Zoldyck?” 

Hisoka raised an eyebrow. “How honest?” 

“I’d prefer you keep it professional.” 

Producing the lighter, Chrollo flicked it twice and lit his own cigarette. Hisoka placed his between his teeth. 

“Professional isn’t very fun,” said Hisoka, while Chrollo lowered the flame to his level; he’d remained seated while the rest of the Troupe stood. “Aren’t you curious what he’s like in bed?” 

“No.” 

Hisoka took a drag on his cigarette. He smiled. “Very well. I think he’s smart—very smart. He dropped the information about the Padokia estate on purpose, and he certainly knows I am a member of the Phantom Troupe.” 

“Because you told him, I take it?” 

“Yes.” He cocked his head. “How else could I gain his trust?” 

Chrollo nodded, exhaling smoke. “A thread of honesty weaves convincing lies.”

“Exactly.”

They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Chrollo finished his cigarette first, dropping the butt onto the concrete and crushing it beneath the heel of his black boot. “You will tell the others at our next meeting,” he said. “If I asked why you misled them today, would I receive an honest answer?” 

“Of course, leader.” Hisoka flicked the remnant of his own cigarette to the middle of the room. “I knew you would understand my approach, but I’m afraid some of the others don’t completely trust me.” 

“Perhaps they would trust you more if you lied less.” 

Hisoka’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps.” 

They left the decrepit building together, but diverged once they reached the street. Chrollo lit another cigarette, took a drag, and tilted his head back to the clear blue sky. He allowed himself a small smile. The Padokia estate was sure to contain valuable treasures, but he desired one above all others. 

He would have the head of Silva Zoldyck before the month was through.   
  


* * *

  
The shop was empty when Hisoka tapped on the glass. Illumi had asked him to stop by when he had no appointments; the neon “Open” sign was switched off, and the door was locked. Taking out his earbuds, Illumi rose from his chair at the front desk and approached the door. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his turquoise blazer, resting on the butt of his pistol, while his left unfastened the locks. As soon as he opened it a crack, Hisoka pushed his way inside and unceremoniously grabbed him by the waist. 

Illumi moved to draw his weapon, but Hisoka was faster. The hand which was not on his waist clasped the bend of his arm, strong as iron. The man leaned close, lips brushing his ear. 

“They're watching,” he said. “It would be prudent to kiss me now.” 

Illumi stiffened, resisting the impulse to glance out the door. He knew he would see nothing; the Troupe were not so careless. If they were watching, they were watching from behind several layers of tinted bulletproof glass. 

Heart pounding, he forced himself to relax in the embrace. Illumi had kissed dangerous men before—his desires frequently clashed with his common sense—but none quite like this. This particular man was a wild card, an imminent threat, an ally bound to him by a thread. And as he pulled back to align their faces, nose trailing across his cheek, he realized that the uncertainty of his allegiance made Hisoka all the more appealing. 

Given his own inclinations, indulging him was probably not wise; but if Hisoka had told the Troupe that they were sexually involved, it couldn’t hurt to keep up appearances. Besides, it was only a kiss. 

Dropping his hands to Hisoka’s waist, Illumi closed the distance between them.

His lips were sweet, the sticky remnant of some fruity lip gloss. Though Illumi knew a closed-mouth kiss would be sufficient, he couldn’t resist deepening it a little, parting his mouth to run his tongue along the bottom lip. Hisoka’s response was instant and vigorous; the hand on his waist yanked their bodies together, and his mouth was forced to accommodate a second tongue. 

Oh, hell. 

They might’ve stood like that for hours, swaying in front of the glass, devouring each other’s faces for any passerby to see, had Hisoka not slipped a hand beneath Illumi’s waistband and jolted him back to reality. 

“Don’t,” said Illumi, jerking out of the man’s grip. “That’s far enough.” 

Hisoka had the mien of a tiger with a hunk of meat dangling out of its grasp. Though fully clothed, Illumi felt acutely naked beneath that look. 

“Sorry,” he said, after a pause. “Just doing my part. You were very convincing.” 

“I am a good actor,” Illumi lied. He straightened his shirt and turned away. “Now, did you only stop by to give your colleagues a show, or are we going to review my father’s plan?” 

“We will, but I wouldn’t bring it out here. The other spiders will see, and they think we’re in bed together, nothing more.” He paused, then asked the question Illumi knew was coming: “Is there somewhere more private we can go?” 

Illumi stepped behind the counter and turned to face him again; his heart was slowing to a normal pace, and his skin no longer felt flushed, but he was far from his usual, dispassionate self. “I am not sleeping with you,” he said. _Yet_ , his mind added, but he pushed the thought away. 

“Oh, of course not,” said Hisoka, shoving his hands into his pockets. The tight pants left very little to the imagination, and it took all of Illumi’s restraint not to stare. “This is strictly a professional arrangement.”  
  
“Good. I am glad we understand each other.” Illumi retrieved his bag from underneath the counter and returned to the front door. He locked it, turned on his heel, and started towards the back of the parlour. “Follow me,” he said. 

He did not turn back, but the click of heels on the marble floor assured him Hisoka was close behind.

Needle Eye’s rear exit opened on a narrow alley which was nearly blocked by a foul-smelling dumpster. Illumi held his breath while he passed through. His apartment was only two blocks south; Hisoka surely knew where he lived already, but part of him still thought taking him there was a bad idea. Given their little altercation in the shop, he was now certain of the obvious: the man was stronger and faster than him, and if he attacked at close range, there wasn’t much he could do to defend himself. 

When he reached the building, he had half a mind to keep walking—the tower which contained the Zoldyck Group’s offices was a mere five blocks in the same direction—but he didn’t trust Hisoka not to make a scene. 

Judas greeted him at the door with a plaintive yowl. 

“You know,” said Hisoka, kicking off his boots, “I suspected you were a witch, but now I’m certain.” 

Illumi removed his own boots as Hisoka dropped into a crouch, scratching the animal beneath his chin. Judas began to purr, rubbing his face against the proffered hand. _Traitor_ , thought Illumi. 

“How is your memory?” he asked, pulling a manila folder from his bag. 

“Exceptional." Hisoka straightened; without shoes, they were nearly the same height. “Is that for me?” 

“Not to keep.” Illumi handed him the folder and ambled over to his table, taking the seat facing the door. “But you should read it and memorize what you can.” 

Hisoka opened the folder, eyes flitting across the first page. He flipped to the second, slowly approaching the table, until he was leaning on the chair opposite Illumi. It wasn’t an overlong report—only twelve pages, with ample figures and diagrams—but it still took him almost ten minutes to read. The man remained standing all the while, Illumi watching him, fingering his gun. The glass table between them was a meager barrier, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. 

“It’s good.” Hisoka tossed the folder onto the table. “But I’m not sure it'll be good enough. The Troupe expects an ambush, you know.”  
  
“I assumed.” 

Hisoka withdrew his forearms from the chair, taking a slow, measured step to the left. He moved as if trying not to startle Illumi, and that suited Illumi just fine. 

“In fact,” he continued. “Chrollo knows it’s an ambush. He also knows that this, ah...relationship, is not strictly personal.” 

Illumi turned sharply; the man stood behind the adjacent chair now. “You told him?” 

“Of course.” Hisoka crossed his arms. “How else could I gain his trust?” 

Illumi tightened his grip on his pistol. “You have been toying with me,” he said. “I do not appreciate being toyed with.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

Illumi scowled. He was beginning to wish Hisoka had taken his proposition elsewhere; there were others who had been wronged by the Troupe, after all, and he wasn’t sure vengeance was worth his blossoming headache. 

“What did you say to Chrollo, exactly?” 

“I told him that I told you that I am a member of the Phantom Troupe. I assume he’s made the correct inference that you and I are planning an ambush, the details of which I'm going to pass on at the next meeting.” 

“Anything else?” 

Hisoka pursed his lips and looked thoughtful, or at least as thoughtful as he was capable of looking. His face did not lend itself well to pensive expressions. “That’s everything, I think.” 

“Great. To ask the obvious: do you intend to tell him what you have just read?” 

“Well, that would be breaking our agreement, wouldn’t it?” He rounded the table, white socks silent on the hardwood floor. “Didn’t we have a deal?” 

“Yes,” said Illumi. “The deal was that you lead the Troupe into our ambush blind, not warn them of it.” 

“You knew Chrollo would suspect an ambush, no matter what I told him. At least this way you can control what kind of details he gets, hm?” 

Illumi wasn’t sure what to say to that. Hisoka was right, of course, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d revealed important information without consulting him. Such behavior was not conducive to a healthy business relationship. 

“I don’t think your report is real, anyway,” said Hisoka. He was close now, his fingers on the back of Illumi’s chair. “You’re too smart to show someone like me anything that really matters, isn’t that right Illumi?” 

Pushing himself back from the table, Illumi stood without reply. There was no use denying it; he was a bad liar, and a bad lie was worse than silence. 

“Unless you have more questions about the logistics of our ambush, you should leave. Now.” 

Hisoka opened his mouth to speak, then, seeming to think better of it, closed it again. He brushed past Illumi, heading towards the door. In the room’s ample natural light, Illumi could just make out the shape of the spider beneath his white shirt. He could also make out a great deal of musculature, but he did not allow his gaze to linger long. 

“I’ll be seeing you on the battlefield then, hmm?” said Hisoka.

“I have neither reason nor desire to see you sooner.” 

“Aww, since when do you need a reason?” He pulled his black boot over the heel of his foot. “As for desire,” he continued, stepping into his other boot, “you should really leave the lying to me, sweetheart.” 

The man was out the door before Illumi could respond.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far the most difficult chapter for me to write; I've never written an action sequence like this before. I think it turned out okay, but all of my research on armed combat came from Wikipedia, so I ask that you take it with a grain of salt. 
> 
> I make liberal use of the [ A-team firing](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ATeamFiring) trope. I trust you will forgive me for this, as the alternative would be the entire Troupe + Illumi dying here, and that seemed anticlimactic. 
> 
> Thanks again for your comments and kudos!

“Your twelve o’clock is here, Mr. Zoldyck.” 

Illumi looked up from his father’s computer. The quarterly reports had already been filed, so there was really no need to review them again, but there was something almost calming about the whole process. His family hired only the best accountants—a necessary expense for a business which laundered large sums of money—and seeing his own calculations match up provided a certain sense of satisfaction. Though he didn’t have Milluki’s skill with technology, his attention to detail, coupled with the inexplicable comfort he found in monotonous computation, made him an excellent bookkeeper. 

“Give me three minutes,” he said, “then send him in.” 

The woman nodded and closed the door. 

Illumi finished his review just as the knock came, switching to the tab which contained the plan for the ambush. The Padokia estate would be ready for the Phantom Troupe by the end of the following day; there were just a few loose ends to tie up in the meantime. 

“Enter,” he called. 

A small man, dressed in a well tailored black suit, stepped through the door. His yellow hair was cropped above the shoulders, with bangs framing a face which was grave despite its youth. 

“Kurapika,” said Illumi. “I take it you have reviewed the report I sent you?” 

“Yes, sir.” The man closed the door and approached the desk. He kept his hands clasped behind him, his back ramrod straight. “I reviewed it thoroughly.” 

Illumi did not ask him to sit, and he did not sit of his own accord. “I have recommended you to my father as leader of the butler’s team, seeing as I cannot be in two places at once.” He paused to measure the man’s response to this news, but his expression did not change. “You have been with us for two years. You are intelligent, quick, and one of the best shots in our security team.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“I do not say any of this to flatter you. I am merely stating facts. And those facts notwithstanding, I am prepared to withdraw my recommendation and reassign you to the Yorknew team, if necessary.” 

Kurapika seemed to stiffen; his eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “And why would that be necessary, sir?” 

Illumi laced his hands together and placed them on the desk. “You have a history with the Phantom Troupe, correct?” 

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do my—” 

“You will answer my questions, nothing more. When you first joined our ranks you expressed an interest in revenge. I am willing to grant you that wish now, provided you are capable of controlling yourself.” Illumi cocked his head. “Are capable of controlling yourself?” 

“Yes, sir. Without a doubt.” 

“So if I were to ask you to capture the Troupe alive, killing none of them, you would do it?” 

“That’s not what—” 

“Answer the question.” 

Kurapika swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” 

Illumi looked at the man for a long while. His skin was flushed, presumably with anger, and his grey eyes were bright beneath knitted brows. He didn’t know him well—he wasn’t close to any of his employees, as a matter of principle—but they’d interacted enough for Illumi to have a general impression of his character. Kurapika Kurta did not strike him as a liar. 

“Very well,” he said at last. “As it stands, your orders are not nearly so restrictive. I have sent you photographs of the leader, and of our contact. You are not to harm either of them. As for the rest...”

Kurapika inclined his head. “I understand.” 

“Good. Your flight leaves at seven o’clock sharp.” 

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?” 

Illumi hesitated. The man was barely twenty, and he looked even younger. There were more experienced operatives on the team who would be miffed about his choice of leader. Nevertheless, the choice was his to make, and his gut said it was the right one. 

“Yes,” said Illumi. “You are dismissed.”   
  


* * *

  
“Almost got it.” Shalnark exchanged his screwdriver for a pair of wire cutters. The metal box which contained the locking mechanism had been pried carefully open; it was purely electric, not difficult to crack at all, especially for a man with his expertise. So far Hisoka’s intel had been accurate: the Zoldycks usually relied on armed guards, but the front gate had been deserted when they arrived. Silva’s dogs were also absent, or else chained out of sight.

The day was overcast. There was a warm wind blowing in from the west, carrying the scent of seawater through the Padokia pines. Kukuroo mountain loomed above them; it was the first time many of them had seen it up close. Aside from the quiet chatter of animals in the surrounding forest, the estate was still and silent. 

Chrollo was reasonably certain it would not stay that way for long. 

There was a click from the vicinity of the little box; the gate’s black spires shifted against the gray sky, swinging inward. 

“Got it!” exclaimed Shalnark. 

“Good,” said Chrollo. He turned for a moment, his back to the gate, surveying the others. They looked uniformly eager—Uvo in particular seemed to vibrate with excitement—and though part of him shared their enthusiasm, another part wondered which of them would not be returning to Yorknew. It was an unusual feeling; they were the most skilled thieves in the world, not easily bested by anyone’s standards, and his confidence in their abilities was total. But Silva Zoldyck had killed one of their own before—the former number eight, his dear friend. Even with precautions set in place, he couldn’t help but feel uncertain of their fate. 

“Keep to the plan,” he said. “After clearing out the butler’s house, Uvo, Paku, and Hisoka will join us at the entrance to the mansion. Radio at the first sign of trouble.” Chrollo took a deep breath, willing his worries away on the exhale. “Let’s move.”   
  


Illumi set his hands on the balustrade, finding it cool to the touch. Scarcely an hour had passed since he’d arrived at the scene, and he was sweating beneath his bulletproof vest. Still, he was glad he’d shown up when he did; the Troupe had breached the gate already, and were headed up the path as a unit. Milluki’s surveillance equipment had been in place for years, and it was at last being put to good use. 

From his vantage point he could see the mansion team clustered on either side of the foyer, crouching on the twin staircases, guns trained on the front door. Teams had been dispatched to all mansion entrances, but Illumi suspected the Troupe’s arrogance would take them to the most obvious point of entry. 

He depressed the button on his radio. “Still all together, Milluki?” 

“Yes,” came the immediate reply. “Wait...no. Three of them are breaking off. Heading towards the butler’s house.”

“Only three? You’re sure?” 

“I _can_ count, Illumi. One of them is your contact.” 

Illumi frowned. Milluki’s flippant attitude was aggravating, but he supposed he couldn’t blame him. If he were watching events unfold from half a world away, he would probably be a hell of a lot more relaxed. 

“Kurapika, do you copy?” 

“Affirmative. We’re ready for them, sir.”

“Good. Keep me apprised.” 

His gaze shifted to the row of windows on his right. The gray morning filtered through their glass panes, silent and slow; they provided the only light in the foyer, whose dark stone floors and walls rendered the black-clad gunmen almost invisible. 

Suddenly, silence yielded to the sound of gunfire. He could only hope Kurapika’s team had fired the first shot.   
  


There was a moment where Kurapika was uncertain if he would be able to keep his promise. 

When he heard the Troupe was near, the urge to burst out of the butler’s house, gun blazing, nearly overwhelmed his good sense. But the moment passed, if only because he knew one of the other Zoldyck operatives would stop him before he reached the door. His orders were to let the Troupe pass, following them from the rear if they did not approach the house. So he stilled himself, heart raging in his chest, praying they would turn his way. 

A voice crackled over his radio: 

“Still all together, Milluki?” 

“Yes.” Kurapika cursed inwardly. Then: “Wait...no. Three of them are breaking off. Heading towards the butler’s house.” 

At the sound of those words, his rage seemed to still. A cold sensation washed over him, head to toe; his focus gathered itself in the tip of his trigger finger, and he perceived the world in slow motion. 

“Kurapika, do you copy?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. “We’re ready for them, sir.” 

“Good. Keep me apprised.” 

The red haired one, one of the two he was not allowed to shoot, appeared first. The man peered into the gloom, heels clicking as he stepped through the narrow doorway onto white marble. He looked right at Kurapika and smiled. 

“It’s empty,” he called over his shoulder. “Illumi was telling the truth after all—they must all be waiting at the mansion.” 

Two figures appeared behind him; the man stepped casually aside. 

They were dead before their eyes adjusted to the light. 

  
Chrollo did not pause when he heard the gunfire. Hisoka was one of the smartest members of the Troupe, and Paku had damn good sense. They could take care of themselves, and the two of them would keep Uvo’s impulsiveness in check. Nobunaga, however, halted in his tracks. A flicker of worry passed over his face. 

“Come on,” said Chrollo. “We have to keep moving.”

Nobu sighed but did not argue. They pressed on. 

The path was growing steeper, and the thick foliage made it difficult to gauge their distance from the mansion. He could only hope the Zoldycks couldn’t see them, either. 

“Shalnark,” said Chrollo, “are your toys ready?” 

“Charged and loaded. I can have them here in ten minutes.”

“Good. Call them now, but keep them in the trees. I don’t want them seen.” 

“You got it.” 

A strong wind cut through the forest, filling the air with the rasp of rustling leaves, but there was no more gunfire. Through the swaying trees, he caught sight of the mansion’s stone exterior. They were getting close. 

“Stop,” said Shizuku. “I hear something.” 

They all halted at once. Someone was coming up the path, and quickly; Chrollo took up his rifle and flicked the safety off. The rest of the Troupe followed suit, raising their weapons in the direction of the newcomer. 

Hisoka burst into view, panting, face flushed red. He stopped a few paces away and leaned forward as if to catch his breath. Chrollo’s heart sank; the man was alone. 

“What happened?” demanded Machi. She was the only one who did not immediately lower her gun.

“Dropped my radio,” said Hisoka. “They’re coming up after me.” 

“Where are Uvo and Paku?” said Nobu.

Hisoka shook his head. “It looked empty. I said we should check for back entrances, but Uvo just…” He averted his eyes. “Paku rushed in after him, but it was too late. There had to be twenty of them in there. When they started firing, I ran.” 

“Bullshit,” said Machi. “Paku would never—”

“Enough,” said Chrollo. “Uvo and Paku knew the risks.” He placed a hand on Nobu’s shoulder; the man’s face had grown ashen. “We will make the Zoldycks pay with their lives. Come on. If we don’t move, they will catch us.” 

The eleven remaining spiders continued in silence, Franklin in the lead, Hisoka taking up the rear. 

  
“They’re almost to the mansion,” said Milluki. “Heading for the front door. Your contact’s with them now.” 

“Acknowledged,” said Illumi. 

Another voice came crackling over the radio: “Damn. I was hoping they’d sneak around back. You kids get to have all the fun.” 

“You will have your chance, Grandfather,” said Illumi. “We are leaving the leader alive, after all.” 

“Pah,” scoffed Zeno. “And he’ll be halfway across the world licking his wounds, after this. I doubt we’ll see Chrollo again.”

“Pluck off a spider’s legs, and where will it run? Alone, Chrollo will be easy to capture.” 

Zeno started to reply, but was cut short by a roar of gunfire. Shoving the radio in his pocket, Illumi hoisted up his own rifle and set his sights on the door, or rather what was left of it; the wood panels had exploded in a mess of splinters. 

The stone walls provided protection from the barrage, and as no Zoldyck operatives were standing in the middle of the foyer, there were no immediate casualties. When the door was sufficiently shredded, the onslaught ceased, but no one appeared in the doorway. Illumi cursed under his breath, released his rifle, and snatched up his radio. 

“Kurapika, status?” 

“Almost to the mansion, sir.” 

“They’re trying to draw us out. I need you to drive them forward.” 

“Affirmative. I can see them now.”

There was a beat of silence before a small, innocuous object came hurtling through the hole in the door. A shout cut through the room:  
  
“Take cover!”

Illumi’s bodyguards stepped between him and the balustrade, plastic shields raised, while the room below erupted in a cacophony of sound and smoke. 

  
Kurapika reached the front yard just in time to watch the grenade detonate. The Troupe rushed in after, and he signaled for his team to follow suit, though it was difficult to see through the thick gray smoke. No doubt what the spiders had intended. Damn. 

They crossed the threshold in pairs, then divided themselves into two lines along the front wall. When the entire team was in the foyer, they closed the perimeter; the Troupe was surrounded on all sides. 

Gunfire crackled in the smoke. Even with protective eyewear, the spiders would be shooting mostly blind, but by aiming for the perimeter they could reasonably avoid friendly fire. By aiming towards the centre, Kurapika’s team could do the same.  
  
“Target the middle of the lower floor,” he called. “Be ready to fire on my command.” 

He caught a glimpse of black in the thinning smoke and aimed his rifle towards it. 

“Fire!”

  
Though it was an inconvenience, the grenade had not been unexpected. The Troupe’s arsenal, while not as extensive as the Zoldyck’s, was notoriously well equipped, and grenades were not expensive. Illumi hadn’t needed Hisoka to tell him that. 

The ruined door ensured the foyer was well ventilated, so the smoke could not linger for long. True, by the time it cleared they had taken heavy casualties, but they still outnumbered the Troupe more than three to one. An acceptable sacrifice, by Illumi’s estimation. 

He pushed the muzzle of his rifle between his bodyguards and they dutifully stepped aside. Eleven figures were solidifying in the smoke. He set his sights on a woman with bright pink hair. 

“Illumi,” said Milluki over the radio.

“What?” 

“You’ve got company.” 

“What kind of company?” Beneath the gunfire, Illumi heard a crash like shattering glass. The bodyguard to his right collapsed, blood seeping from a wound in his temple. 

Illumi dropped to the floor, swiveling his rifle toward the freshly broken window. 

“What the hell was that?” he hissed. 

“Drones,” said Milluki. “I count four...no, five of them.” 

“Fuck,” said Illumi. He caught a glimpse of a black object in the window and squeezed his trigger. The shot missed by a mile. “Grandfather?” 

“On it,” said Zeno. “We’ll be there shortly.”

Peering between the balusters, Illumi wasn’t sure “shortly” was going to cut it. All six windows were broken, machines darting in and out of view, circling like great black vultures. Nearly half of his team lay dead or dying. The smoke was gone, at least, leaving the Troupe vulnerable; a few spiders looked to be bleeding, but all eleven were still standing. 

His second bodyguard dropped to the floor beside him, a bullet wound between his eyes. Hisoka hadn’t told him anything about drones. Illumi was going to strangle him. 

“Chrollo,” he shouted over the din, “I have one of your people in my sights. Hold your fire or I shoot.”

Illumi could not hold his aim and watch Chrollo’s reaction simultaneously, so he focused on keeping the pink-haired woman in his crosshairs. It was a risky play; drawing attention to himself was an excellent way to get killed. But he had the cover of the balusters, meager as it was, and he knew the spiders would not sacrifice an individual unless necessary. At the very least, it might buy them some time. 

“Hold your fire,” called Chrollo. The man’s voice was steady and calm, as if this was exactly what he had expected Illumi to do. “Would you like to discuss the terms of your surrender?” 

Illumi risked a glance at Chrollo. His cold gray eyes were turned upwards, his pistol held loosely in his hand, rifle hanging at his side. Illumi could have shot him easily, but the thought of Hisoka stayed his hand. There was no telling what the man might do if he flagrantly broke their contract.

“No,” he replied, refocusing his aim on the woman. “Would you like to discuss the terms of yours?” 

“I don't think I do,” said Chrollo, as if they were discussing the weather. “Where's your father, Illumi?” 

Illumi smiled slightly. By now, his father’s team had finished pillaging the Troupe’s Yorknew hideouts and were waiting on word from Padokia. He could only hope Milluki would have good news for them by the time this was over.

“He is in Yorknew,” said Illumi. “At 1106 108th Avenue, and in every other little spider nest in the city. I am afraid you would not have much to return to, even if you could leave this room alive.” 

“I see.” If Chrollo was upset by this news, he did not show it. Pity. “You’ve been busy. If Silva isn't here, then I will settle for your life, for the time being.” 

The room had gone deathly quiet. All ears were tuned to the leaders’ exchange, waiting for orders to resume. 

Suddenly, there was an explosion from outside. Zeno’s team had arrived and from the sound of it, they had engaged the drones. 

  
Drones were weapons for cowards and politicians (the overlap between these two camps being very nearly total). As he was neither, Zeno Zoldyck hated the things on principle; though the fact that three of the wedge-shaped devils were looming overhead, spitting death down at his team, didn’t help, either. 

His son had practically begged him to leave the estate, but Zeno had refused outright. Just because he didn’t go out seeking fights anymore didn’t mean he couldn’t defend his home, if the fight came to it. Stationing himself in the rear of the mansion, where the Troupe was less likely to attack, had been a compromise. But he wasn’t about to stay there, twiddling his thumbs, when the thugs who’d maimed him were making mince meat out of his grandson. Not a chance. 

Two butlers had carried Zeno (and his chair) from the back of the house to the front yard; he could have made the journey without assistance—it was a well made chair, and he frequently roamed the grounds with it—but time was of the essence, so he’d grudgingly demanded help.

A bullet caught him square in the chest, which hurt like a veritable bitch, but didn’t penetrate his vest. He’d survived the Troupe once, and they weren’t going to finish him off that easily, damn it. 

“Canary!” he called, as the butlers set him down. “Give me that bazooka.” 

The girl, who looked to be struggling to aim such a bulky weapon, gave him a dubious look. “Sir?” 

“My legs might not work but my eyes work just fine,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me the bazooka.” 

She handed it over without further protest, raising her rifle in its stead; she seemed much more comfortable with the slimmer weapon. 

“Drones,” he muttered, hoisting the bazooka to his shoulder. “I fucking hate drones.” 

  
Chrollo used the distraction of the blast as an opportunity to strike. He fired twice at Illumi with his handgun; one shot went wild, the other hit the baluster the man was lurking behind. At the same instant, Machi swore and stumbled into him. 

“He got my fucking ear,” she hissed. “Nearly killed me!” 

“Nearly,” agreed Chrollo, squeezing the trigger again. Illumi rolled to one side and returned fire; Chrollo ducked, dropping to a crouch. “Shalnark, status?” 

“Two drones down,” came a voice near the floor. Shalnark was seated at the centre of the circle, frowning at a small screen. “The other three are busy.” 

“We don’t need them,” shouted Phinks, releasing a round into the dwindling crowd of Zoldyck goons. “Illumi’s dead and he knows it.” 

“You’re right,” came a new voice. “He’s dead, I’m dead, but you’re dead, too, fucker.” 

Chrollo tossed his empty pistol aside and turned toward the source of the voice. Machi covered him, exchanging shots with Illumi. 

The man was young enough to look out of place among the other Zoldyck operatives. Straight blond hair stuck out from beneath his black helmet, and there was blood spatter on his face. One hand grasped a black grenade; the other held its pin between his thumb and forefinger, ready to pull. 

From the gleam in his eye, Chrollo knew it was not a smoke bomb.

“You would kill yourself and your employer's son, just to ensure our deaths?” Chrollo took a step forward. “The Zoldycks may be thieves like us, but they aren't like us. Silva wouldn’t sacrifice a member of his family for the sake of revenge.” He cocked his head. Gunfire could still be heard from the front yard, but the room had otherwise fallen silent; the spiders (and few remaining Zoldycks) were listening attentively. “What did we take from Silva that warrants such an extreme reaction? His father’s mobility, a few billion jenny… What he took from us is much more precious.” 

“This isn’t about what you took from Silva. This is about what you took from _me_.”

“Ah.” Chrollo paused, taking a closer look at the man’s face. It was not familiar. “Have we met?” 

The man’s hands were remarkably steady, given the circumstances. This did not comfort Chrollo; in his experience, none were so calm in the face of death as the utterly insane. 

“We met eight years ago, in the Lukso province, at the mouth of the Kurta caves.”

“Kurta?" Now there was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. “I didn’t think there were any survivors.” 

“Just me.” The man smiled mirthlessly. “It was hard enough, protecting the land we had left. When the province was invaded we learned to defend ourselves, but our weapons were primitive, our numbers small. Still, the Kakin government tried to reason with us. Offered to buy our land, as if we had anywhere else to go. They even killed a few of our men. But they weren’t the ones who massacred all of us.” His eyes narrowed. “Were they?” 

“If you’re asking if the Kakin government paid us to kill your people, the answer is no,” said Chrollo. “We simply heard rumors of riches in the Kurta caves, and decided to see if those rumors had substance. Our interest was purely recreational; we are not motivated by money, as the Zoldycks are.” 

“I know,” said the man. His voice was low and controlled. “You steal and kill for pleasure.” 

“I suppose that’s one way to put it.” Chrollo spread his hands, open-palmed. He stood less than a meter from the man, within grabbing distance; at the first sign of weakness, he would try for the grenade. “But surely you realize that if we hadn't killed your clan, others would've killed them in our stead? The Kakin empire does not have infinite patience. I wonder what would have happened if they had hired the Zoldycks to exterminate you. Would you be standing with us today, instead of with Illumi?” 

“I’m not interested in hypotheticals.” 

“Fair enough. But you are interested in something. If you’d meant to kill us all, you’d have done it by now.”

Kurapika took a deep breath. His hands had developed a slight tremble, which Chrollo watched keenly. 

“I was interested in an answer.” 

“To what question?” 

“I went into the caves, hours after you raided them. I found most of our artifacts stolen, along with portions of the cave wall itself, hacked away. Before I kill you, I want to know where they are, if you still have them, and who you sold them to, if you don’t.” 

“Ah.” Chrollo glanced to his left, where Hisoka stood watching their exchange, his expression unreadable. “I don’t see how that information would be of use to you, if we are both about to die here.”

“Just spit it out.” 

“Very well. The red crystals from the cave wall fetched a fair price from one of the Nine Dons. I forget which one. Not Silva, though he may have expressed an interest.” Chrollo wished Silva Zoldyck had purchased one of the artifacts—then he would have a real chance to sway the man’s allegiance—but the Zoldycks and Troupe seldom did business with one another, even before the murder of number eight. “As for the artifacts, they were sold to various parties. It was a long time ago; I don’t remember the names.” 

“Might I make a suggestion?” Hisoka cut in. 

The man’s eyes shifted to Hisoka. He nodded. 

“You want these artifacts, I assume?” 

“Yes. Those caves were sacred to my people, as were the artifacts they contained. As the only surviving member of the Kurta clan, they belong to me.” 

“Then you would be wise to let us live,” said Hisoka. “This fight hasn't gone ideally for either side. If it's alright with my leader, and with yours, I think we should call it a draw.” 

“A draw?” Illumi’s voice was clear and loud, though he was still several meters above them, laying flat behind the balustrade. “I have twenty people outside, and I have just received word that your last drone has been destroyed.”  
  
“And I could kill you right now,” countered Machi. “If that psycho twink weren’t threatening to blow us to bits, I’d have taken you out already.” 

“Psycho _what_?” muttered Franklin. 

“Twink,” said Hisoka. “It means—”

“Not now Hisoka,” said Chrollo. He hadn’t removed his gaze from the man with the grenade. “What do you say? Let us walk out of here unharmed, and I'll give you the names of the men who purchased your artifacts. Refuse, and Machi shoots Illumi, Illumi shoots Machi, the rest of us shoot you, you pull that pin, and we all die right here, today.” 

The man licked his lips. “The latter option has a certain appeal.” 

“I’m sure it does. But I think you’re too smart to waste your own life when another option is available.” 

There was a muttered curse from above, followed by a whispered debate indecipherable to the party below. Illumi was presumably consulting the other Zoldycks via radio, and he did not sound happy. 

“What do you say?” prompted Chrollo. 

The man began to reply, but was cut off by a shout from Illumi: “Enough! The decision is not his to make.”

“You’re not the one holding the explosive, Zoldyck,” said Machi. 

“But I am paying the man who is,” said Illumi. “Kurapika, keep the grenade ready. Chrollo, my Grandfather and I have generously agreed to release you, for the time being. Attack myself or any one of our operatives, and we will kill you all.” Illumi drew himself up to his full height, so the bullet-riddled rail of the balustrade ran across his torso. His rifle was raised and ready, his voice wrought with open fury: “Now get the fuck out.” 

Chrollo looked away from the man—Kurapika—for the first time in several minutes, shifting his attention to Illumi. He wouldn’t put it past the Zoldycks to kill them all with their backs turned, but if Zeno’s team joined the fray they were as good as dead without support from Shalnark’s drones. He raised his hands in surrender. “Very well.” 

“Leader,” hissed Nobu, “you can’t seriously believe that he’s going to let us—” 

“I believe,” said Chrollo, “it is in our best interest to do as Illumi says.” 

“But—”

Chrollo shook his head; he saw tears welling in the man’s eyes. The others were varying degrees of damaged and distraught: Bonolenov leaning against Franklin for support, blood seeping from a wound in his leg—Kortopi clutching at a red stain on his shoulder, gray hair obscuring a face too pale for Chrollo’s liking. Even Phinks looked shaken. Only Feitan and Hisoka seemed whole and unperturbed; the former lingered near the exit, peering out into the front yard; the latter stood watching the others with detached interest. 

“We'll avenge Uvo,” said Chrollo, “and Paku. But now is not the time.”

Nobu looked away and said no more. 

Chrollo did not acknowledge Illumi again, but he nodded to Kurapika as they fled the scene. Though he’d been reasonably confident the man did not intend to kill them, he’d never doubted his resolve; if he’d grabbed for the grenade, Kurapika would have pulled the pin with no hesitation. He could admire that kind of dedication, even when it was pitted against him. 

When they returned to Yorknew, he would be sure to track down the location of the Kurta artifacts. It couldn’t hurt to have the information on hand, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for 100 kudos!

The pen trailed across a petal of purple hyacinth, adding a thin highlight to its rim. Long, yellow-green leaves rose from the bottom of the stalk, curving past a cluster of tulips which were such a deep maroon as to appear black; dark colors would be needed to cover the spider, and Illumi had a fondness for tulips. 

The bouquet was not the centerpiece of the drawing, however. Using the pad of his thumb, he shifted the image on his screen tablet, scrolling down to the snarling creature emerging from the thicket of bramble and flowers. It was a red fox, brown forepaws outstretched, haunches gathered for the killing leap. Blood fell from its muzzle in heavy drops of wine red, and there was a sadistic curve to the mouth. Its yellow eyes had a rabid gleam. 

The drawing was very nearly finished. After the disaster of a raid, Illumi had craved solitude above all else; he could not avoid a heated discussion with his father on the day of their return to Yorknew, but afterwards he had retreated to his shop, cancelled his appointments, and set up camp on the rearmost table. Three days had passed since then, and he’d hardly moved from the spot. Though his apartment was far more comfortable, his mother would be sure to accost him there. He was the only person with a key to Needle Eye, so his privacy was guaranteed. 

Since the sun had set nearly an hour prior, his tablet provided the main source of light in the shop. Illumi’s eyes burned as he squinted at the screen; the red fox grinned, seeming to mock him. He wanted to draw something, anything else, but his tired mind could not conjure any new ideas.

Grabbing the water bottle between his legs, he untwisted the cap and let the last few drops fall into his mouth. He sighed and stretched his legs. Time to refill. 

His feet touched the floor just as a knock came on the glass. 

It was not the first knock he’d heard over the past three days, and it would probably not be the last. Ignoring it, he padded towards the bathroom to replenish his water bottle and relieve himself. After a few minutes the knocking abated, and he returned to the main room refreshed. Then, while stepping over his tablet’s cord, he saw it: a dark figure outside the door, silhouetted by the orange glow of the streetlights. It peered into the shop, hands cupped around its eyes.

Illumi froze mid-stride, watching the man. For it was a man by its shape, but it was too lean to be his father, or Milluki. His eyes narrowed. Surely the Phantom Troupe had not returned from Padokia already? 

The banging on the glass resumed, this time accompanied by a voice: 

“Illumi, I can see you. Let me in.” 

Stepping backwards over the cord, Illumi walked to the front desk, grabbed his pistol, and continued to the door. He unlocked it and took a large step back, recalling the last time Hisoka had appeared in his shop; he was not in a kissing mood. 

“I didn't think I would be seeing you so soon,” said Illumi. He did not point the gun directly at Hisoka, but he kept it ready in his hand. “I was unsure I would be seeing you again at all.” 

“Oh, you aren’t getting rid of me that easily.” Hisoka stepped into the parlour and Illumi locked the door behind him. “Why aren’t you at home?” 

“Avoiding family,” said Illumi. “Tensions are high, and I would prefer they settle before we jump into another ill-fated scheme. Speaking of,” he turned to Hisoka, “is there a reason you neglected to mention that the Troupe has access to military-grade drones?” 

“Had,” corrected Hisoka. “You destroyed them all. And Chrollo didn’t brief us in detail until we reached Padoka; I’m afraid my cellphone is useless outside of Yorknew.”

Illumi pinched the bridge of his nose. Hisoka’s idiocy was headache-inducing (or maybe it was just the man’s perfume). “I could have _given_ you another phone, Hisoka.” 

“Hm. I suppose you could have, couldn't you? Oh well. You killed two spiders—you should be proud.”

“Proud?" scoffed Illumi. "We lost twenty-nine people, and the Troupe lost only two.” 

“Those two were easily worth thirty men, but I take your point." He cocked his hip, leaning against one of the cushioned tables. "Your business with the Troupe is unfinished, then?” 

“My business with the Troupe will be finished when they are all dead.”

Hisoka grinned. “I assume you'll need my assistance?” 

Illumi took a deep breath. He hadn’t been looking forward to this talk—criminals generally took offense to being fired, and Hisoka was as criminal as they come. The ones with good sense swallowed their pride and moved on; they didn’t want the Zoldycks as enemies. Hisoka seemed the type to strangle him for his trouble. 

“Actually, your services are no longer required.” He was unable to banish the thought of Hisoka’s hands around his throat. Tightening his grip on his pistol, he ignored the image and the consequent rush of warmth to his groin. God. He needed to get laid before he did something stupid.

“The money you asked for was wired to your account yesterday,” he continued. “If you do not wish to be killed along with the rest of the spiders, I recommend you take up residence in a different city for a while.” 

“I see." 

Illumi was reasonably certain his arousal had no visual consequences, at least not in the low light; for if Hisoka had the barest inkling of his mood, then he surely wouldn’t have turned aside, towards the table where his tablet lay, its screen dark and dormant. The man’s eyes flickered with interest.

“May I?” 

Illumi blinked. Since Hisoka had appeared, he’d nearly forgotten about the drawing he spent the better part of three days creating. Though the piece was technically for Hisoka, he’d really made it for himself, to keep busy while his emotional state settled to some kind of equilibrium. Not that he’d reached equilibrium—his reaction to Hisoka’s presence was proof of that—but he was feeling better than he’d felt three days prior. The process of making art was always cathartic; the subject was of little relevance. 

Part of him was worried Hisoka would take his work the wrong way (as a sign of personal interest, sexual or otherwise), but another part craved feedback with the sudden, maddening voracity by which all artists are occasionally possessed. 

“Go ahead,” said Illumi, after a pause. 

The screen brightened with Hisoka’s touch. His pupils shrank in the sudden light, but his eyes widened, as if to better take in the design. 

“This is for me?” 

Illumi nearly launched into a diatribe about how Hisoka shouldn’t flatter himself, that all of his artwork was personal, that whoever’s skin it wound up on was inconsequential, et cetera. 

Instead, he responded simply, “Yes.”

Not looking up from the tablet, Hisoka smiled and shook his head. “You’ve outdone yourself, Illu. You really are the best.” 

Illumi was too pleased with the compliment to notice Hisoka had used the diminutive form of his name. 

“I take it you still require my services to supplement your payment?” 

“Oh, yes.” Refocusing his attention on Illumi, Hisoka stepped away from the table. “When your business with the Troupe is done I’ll book those laser appointments you suggested. In the meantime I’ll stick around, though, I think.” He winked. “Yorknew is an exciting place to be.”

Illumi frowned. “I really do not think you should—”

“Stay?” Hisoka finished. “You’re not worried about me, are you Illumi?” 

“No,” said Illumi, too loudly. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, then opened them again. “My father is angry; he will retaliate soon. It would be unfortunate if an ally was caught in the crossfire, but if you are in the way, I will shoot you myself.” 

Hisoka laughed, low and musical and only slightly unsettling. “I would expect nothing less. Regardless, I'm not leaving just yet. Oh!” Seeming to remember something, he reached into his pants pocket. A slip of paper appeared between his long white fingers. “This is for that prettyboy employee of yours.” 

“I am not giving him your number.” 

“It’s not a number, though I’m flattered you’re jealous! It’s a name—the name of the Don who purchased the cave crystals. Chrollo asked me to give it to him as a gesture of goodwill.”

“Ah.” Illumi took the paper with his free hand (the other was still occupied with his pistol). He glanced down at the name. “And if I choose not to deliver this?”  
  
Hisoka shrugged. “That’s your prerogative. But Chrollo may bring it up, assuming your boy is present at our next confrontation.” 

“That is my concern, not yours.” Illumi shoved the paper into his pocket. “Now, if there is nothing else, I came here for privacy. You are interrupting.” 

Hisoka raised his hands in mock-surrender. “I’ll be going soon. Just one last thing.” 

“What?”

“Chrollo called a meeting—in a new location, seeing as our bases were ransacked. How much money did you find, anyway?” 

“A few hundred thousand jenny, no artifacts or other valuables. The Troupe doesn’t leave much behind.”  
  
“I could have told you that," said Hisoka."But it wasn’t all about the money, was it?”

“No. We aimed to demoralize the Troupe before killing them all.” 

“I don’t know about demoralized, but they are certainly pissed.” Hisoka took another step forward. They stood across from each other then, parallel to the street, orange light carving sharp shadows into their faces. “Anyway. I know I’m no longer on your payroll, but I’d like to keep helping. After the meeting, I’ll tell you what Chrollo’s planning, free of charge.” 

“Forgive my skepticism, but I cannot believe you would give me anything free of charge.” 

Hisoka chuckled. “Oh, there are some things I’d _gladly_ give you for free, Illumi.” His voice was low and sultry; the image of white hands on his throat reasserted itself. Illumi pushed the thought away. Outside, one of the streetlights guttered into darkness, and he was grateful for the diminished light. 

“But you're quite right,” continued Hisoka. “This particular service comes at a small price: dinner, tomorrow night, with you.” 

Ah. He should have expected as much. Hisoka’s intel seemed as likely to hurt their cause as it was to help it, so turning him down was no great loss. Instead of sipping wine with a probable psychopath, he would head down to The Heretic and hook up with the first passable man who expressed interest. There were plenty of gay and bisexual men in Yorknew; his dalliance with Hisoka had been electrifying, but his sexual energies were better spent in sane company. 

He opened his mouth to refuse when Hisoka’s hand grasped his shoulder. At the touch, words seemed to wither in his throat; the pistol felt heavy in his hand. 

“Before you give me your answer, I’d like to kiss you again, I think.”

“Oh?” said Illumi. The sound was soft, barely exceeding a whisper. 

One hand still on lllumi’s shoulder, the other sliding down to his waist, Hisoka stepped in close. He was a few inches taller in his heels; Illumi automatically tilted his head upward, breathing slowly, deliberately. His breath smelled both sweet and smoky, candy and cigarettes. 

“Is that alright?” said Hisoka. He released Illumi’s shoulder, bringing his thumb and forefinger to the man’s chin. “Me kissing you?” 

“Yes." 

“You sure?” There was a slight lilt to his voice; the man was teasing him. “Whatever happened to ‘strictly professional,’ hmm?”

“I’m sure,” said Illumi, ignoring the second question. The rasp of Hisoka’s denim pants against his own cotton slacks seemed inordinately loud in the silence. 

There was a long pause in which he thought Hisoka would simply stop, withdraw, walk away—or worse, that he would ask him to beg. What if he hadn’t wanted Illumi, he’d just wanted proof that Illumi wanted _him_? It seemed the kind of backwards, convoluted scheme Hisoka would come up with. But his worries proved baseless: the taller man brought their lips together softly, slowly, the hand on his chin snaking around to grasp his hair (it was greasy despite multiple applications of dry shampoo, but Hisoka didn’t seem to mind). 

Somewhere, worlds away, there was a noise very much like a pistol hitting a hardwood floor. 

Illumi closed his eyes and was lost.   
  


* * *

  
Someone was knocking on the glass.

Bleary-eyed and half awake, Illumi rolled towards the sound. His back, unhappy at having spent the night on the ground, crackled in protest; he had to peel his face from the wood floor as if it had been glued there.

The first thing he saw was a piece of pink paper, inches from his nose. There was a message scrawled on it in neat, looping cursive:

_See you at dinner ❤︎_

The events of the previous night rushed back to him with sudden clarity. Groaning, he groped for his shirt.

He was fastening the button on his pants when the knock came again. Squinting into the sunlight, Illumi discerned not one, but four figures gathered by the door. None were tall enough to be Hisoka, which he was grateful for; he wasn't sure he wanted to face the man so soon. The sex had been incredible, as he'd suspected it would be, but he was a bit embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. Usually he was better about controlling his volume, especially when he was sober. Last night he'd been uncharacteristically loud.

Staggering to his feet, Illumi spotted his pistol lying a few paces away, forgotten. He picked it up, shoved it in his waistband, and approached the door.

His three youngest siblings grinned up at him through the glass.

"Well," said Illumi, opening the door. "This is a surprise. Did Father put you up to this?"

"No," said Killua. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his shoulders raised in a perpetual shrug. "When we heard what happened, and that no one could get through to your phone, so we thought we'd—"

"I missed you!" shouted Alluka, throwing herself at Illumi. She wrapped her arms around his legs in a tight hug. "You skipped dinner two times, Illu!"

"I know," said Illumi. "I am very sorry." 

Kalluto shuffled beside Alluka, looking up at Illumi with big pink eyes. He was too shy to say anything, but he knew the boy had missed him, too. 

"I am glad you all stopped by." His gaze shifted to the fourth and tallest figure; Kurapika stood in the doorway, smiling at the scene. "I can see you have bullied one of my employees into acting as your escort."

"Bullied is hardly the right word," said Kurapika. "I was happy to do it. Though I was surprised when they showed up at my office. I could see the resemblance to Silva," he looked pointedly at Killua, "so I knew who they were right away, at least." 

"We knew you'd yell at us for coming here alone," said Killua matter-of-factly, "so I asked Milluki who our best guard was." He returned Kurapika's gaze, squinting suspiciously. "Is he really your best guard, Illu? He seems kinda young." 

"And small," added Alluka, releasing her grip on Illumi's legs. 

"Yes," said Illumi. "Kurapika is our best." 

He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he looked incredibly disheveled. The butt of the pistol was sticking out from his waistband, he was covered in several layers of dried sweat, and he wasn't wearing any shoes. As if reading his thoughts, Kalluto spoke softly: 

"Are you okay, Illu?" He tugged on Illumi's pant leg, voice dropping to a whisper. "You smell bad." 

"Yes," said Illumi, shuffling over to his desk to put the pistol away. "I'm fine, Kallu. I need a shower, is all." 

"Do you want me to take them home?" asked Kurapika. 

"No!" protested Alluka. "Please, Illu, we just _got_ here!" 

Illumi smiled, looking between the three of them. He loved them dearly, and it really had been too long since they'd spent much time together.

"They can stay with me, but not here. I need to shower and eat. Would you like to come back to my apartment?" 

"Yeah!" said Alluka and Kalluto in unison. 

"That'd be cool," said Killua a beat later. 

"Good." Illumi dropped to a crouch. "Alluka, will you promise not to terrorize Judas?" 

"I never terr—I never terra—I don't bother Judas!" she said obstinately. 

"Ah, my mistake. Will you promise not to chase him, then?"

Her lower lip protruded in a pout. She seemed to be debating whether or not to argue. "Fine," she said at last. "I promise."

"Good." He straightened and began to look for his shoes.

"Should I go back to my office, then?" asked Kurapika. "I don't want to intrude." 

Illumi found his boots by one of the cushioned tables, but his socks were nowhere to be found. Ah well. He slipped his foot in bare as he replied to Kurapika:

"No. The Troupe are in town again, and I would feel better with a guard around, even on such a short walk. Besides," he stepped into his other boot, "there is something I would like to discuss with you." 

Kurapika nodded curtly. 

They arrived at the apartment a few minutes later, Alluka bursting in first, grabbing Judas before he could run. 

"Alluka," Illumi warned. 

Alluka looked up at him, struggling to contain the writing mass of black fur. "What?" she said. "I'm not chasing him!" 

Illumi arched an eyebrow. 

Sighing, Alluka dropped the cat, who promptly bolted to the bedroom. Kalluto eyed the creature with keen interest. 

"You can watch something on TV," said Illumi. "I will make you lunch after I shower." 

Alluka and Kalluto cheered at the prospect of food, while Killua silently flipped on the flat screen. They'd only been in Illumi's apartment a few times (usually Illumi visited them at his parent's Yorknew house), and they all seemed happy to be there—even Kurapika, who was evidently fond of children. 

As he stepped into the bathroom, Illumi felt a sense of contentment for the first time since the raid. Not even the thought of dinner with Hisoka could dampen his mood.

Well. Not much, anyway.   
  


* * *

  
"You're late." 

Hisoka stepped through the doorless entryway, heels clicking on concrete. He turned to where Machi sat on a pile of moldering boxes; Feitan was cross-legged on the floor next to her, picking at his fingers with a knife. The rest of the spiders were lingering close by, save Chrollo, who was perched on a windowsill at the far end of the long building. He took a drag on his cigarette and nodded to Hisoka. 

"I had business to attend to," he informed Machi. 

"Sticking your disgusting dick in Illumi Zoldyck does not count as business," she said. "Next time do us all a favor and don't show up at all." 

Hisoka flashed her a smile. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Machi? You know, I usually prefer men, but I have made exceptions in the past if you'd like to—"

Machi leapt to her feet, drawing her pistol from its holster with lightning quickness. "Fuck you," she spat. "Traitor. I should kill you right here." 

"Machi," said Chrollo. His voice carried surprisingly well in the large space, bouncing off the tin roof; it seemed to swell around them, commanding but soft. "Don't." 

The woman hesitated, her face contorted in a snarl. But after a moment she acquiesced, shoving her gun back in its holster, returning to her seat on the boxes. Dust erupted from the cardboard, and the little motes danced in the gray light.

Chrollo pushed himself off the sill and crushed his cigarette beneath his boot. The absence of Uvo, physically large as he was, was particularly conspicuous, but he felt Paku's absence equally; the losses sat like a stone in his gut. He understood grief well enough to know that bloodshed would not eliminate it, but there was a certain righteousness in revenge, a certain irresistible allure to violence, nevertheless. He would not deny himself that catharsis, even if it meant risking more lives, incurring more grief. The other spiders felt the same; more than thievery, it was bloodlust that bound them together, that made them the most feared organization in the world. 

"We're all here," he said, starting towards the others, "so let's begin. I've spoken to several of you already about my plan for the Zoldycks. I ask now that those discussions remain private." He looked to Machi, then to Hisoka. "Tension has been growing between us lately, and I believe some measure of secrecy is necessary to alleviate that tension." 

"So... you aren't going to tell us the plan?" said Shizuku. 

"I will tell you as much of the plan as you need to know to carry out your role," said Chrollo. "Complete knowledge of the plan I've limited to myself and three others: Nobunaga, Franklin, and Feitan."

"This is about Hisoka," said Machi. "Why can't we just say it? We're all thinking it! He lied to us last time, and he is literally sleeping with the enemy. Somehow that's _fine_?" 

"I trust Hisoka," said Chrollo. "As much as I trust any of you. He is a spider. But given his current position as a spy, he is naturally the most suspect." 

Hisoka shrugged. "Fair enough." 

"For this plan to go smoothly, I need two teams: I will head one, and Nobu will head the other. In the event that either myself or Nobu are incapacitated, Franklin and Feitan will be assigned to separate teams to act as backup leader. Since complete knowledge of the plan is unnecessary for the rest of you, I've elected to err on the side of caution. Just because Hisoka is the most obvious source of a leak, doesn’t mean no one else could let something slip—either by accident or on purpose." 

The Troupe absorbed this in silence. This was an unprecedented approach; even when separated, they usually worked as one unit, each member acting as a leg, as one part of the whole spider. Heading into a confrontation partly blind made everyone uneasy. 

"Are you sure, leader?" asked Phinks.

Chrollo sighed, fishing in his pocket for another cigarette. "I've thought long and hard about this, and I’m certain this is the best way. So long as you have complete trust in me, and in your team leader, our success is assured." 

Kortopi and Phinks exchanged glances. They nodded their assent, and the rest of the spiders followed suit. 

"Good,” said Chrollo. A new cigarette appeared between his fingers; Nobu offered his lighter and he accepted, holding the end to the flame.  
  
"Now, the teams will be divided as follows…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write. Not a gun in sight, just two clowns living in the moment.

Following his shower, Illumi had promptly called the restaurant, reserved a table for 7:00PM, and forwarded the info to Hisoka via text. That obligation fulfilled, he'd spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep his siblings entertained (no small task—they seemed uniformly disappointed that he didn't have a game called "Mario Kart") and chatting intermittently with Kurapika.

As he waited in the restaurant's foyer, Illumi reflected on their conversation. By taking it upon himself to deal with Chrollo directly, Kurapika had undermined his authority; though the action probably saved his life, the man's motives were questionable, and he hesitated to reward such behavior.

After much deliberation, Illumi had decided to give him the Don's name anyway. He didn’t think Kurapika would betray them—seeing him with his siblings, playing and laughing like a child himself, the man hardly seemed capable of such a thing—but he might be persuaded to work elsewhere, if he felt the Zoldycks were conspiring to thwart his personal goals. Illumi did not want to lose such a talented guard, if the loss could be avoided. 

Kurapika had thanked him profusely for the note, but seemed to withdraw after reading the name. That was fine by Illumi; he had no interest in the method of the man's revenge, so long as it did not interfere with his work.

"Mr. Zoldyck?"

Rising from his reverie, Illumi turned to the waiter at the desk. "Yes?"

"Your table is ready a few minutes early, if you'd like to be seated."

Illumi glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for a shock of red hair. He found none; Hisoka was not there yet.

"Thank you, but I'll wait for my..." He fumbled for the word. Friend? Lover? The thought of applying either term to Hisoka was vaguely nauseating. "Colleague," he finished.

"Very good, sir."

The restaurant was packed. A dull roar of conversation drifted in from the adjacent room, rising up to the arched wood ceiling. The chandelier—a remarkable piece that sparkled in the low light—seemed to tremble with the force of the sound. If Illumi hadn't dropped his name, he'd never have secured a same-day reservation; the Zoldycks did not own Le Chasseur, but Illumi was a frequent patron, and his family name was well known in Yorknew.

Hisoka arrived with two minutes to spare.

Along with the time and location of their date, Illumi had included the dress code: black tie optional. Then, remembering Hisoka's penchant for outlandish outfits, he'd added: _At the very least, wear a suit._

Well. To his credit, the man _was_ wearing a suit.

The blazer was not so bad—wine red was hardly formal, but it was a dark enough shade to be passable. The pants even matched the blazer, a shocking act of color coordination which Illumi had not thought possible for a man so infatuated with leopard print. His undershirt, however, was black, not white, and he was not wearing a tie. 

As the waiter led them to their table, Illumi admonished him a hushed tone.

"Why aren't you wearing a tie?"

Hisoka's mouth quirked. "You said black tie optional."

"That means you do not have to wear a tuxedo. You still need to wear a tie."

"...Ah."

They were seated in the far corner of the main room. There were not one, but three chandeliers hanging above the open space, which was equipped with a high, vaulted ceiling. These lavish fixtures illuminated a variety of wood panels, onto which various nature scenes had been painted; thin strips of reflective material divided each panel, catching flashes of color from the scene below. The whole space had a Lapetéan feel, to compliment the cuisine; Illumi had been to the capital a few times, and had subsequently developed a taste for the food. Le Chasseur was not the only Lapetéan restaurant in Yorknew, but it was by far the best.

"How was your meeting with the Troupe?" he asked, when it became apparent that Hisoka was not going to apologize for his wardrobe. At least his hair looked nice. The man had forgone the usual product, letting it fall about his face in what would have been a typical style, were it not still firetruck red. It was wavy, and looked softer than it had any right to look.

"Ah, ah," chided Hisoka. "I'll tell you all about it after we've eaten, drunk, and talked. This is not a business meeting. This is my payment."

Now Illumi's mouth quirked. "Very well."

The waitress took their drink orders; the house red for Illumi, strawberry champagne for Hisoka. When she left, they eyed each other over the expanse of white tablecloth, Illumi struggling to hold Hisoka's gaze. At last he looked away, fiddling with the napkin in his lap, trying to banish thoughts of the previous night from his mind.

"So," ventured Illumi. "Where were you employed before you joined the Troupe?"

Hisoka's face brightened, evidently thrilled to have goaded him into smalltalk. "Oh, here and there," he said. "I was a clerk at the Claire's in Meteor City for several years."

"I am not familiar with the place."

"It's a treasure trove of cheap jewelry. Mostly for children, but I stole my fair share of the inventory for personal wear."

"Thrilling."

"Quite. Oh, and I pierced many ears in my time there—we had this little," he formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger, "plastic device that we used. Very efficient."

Illumi frowned. "Piercing guns are not _efficient._ They cause unnecessary trauma to the ear. They are also difficult to clean and consequently unhygienic. No reputable piercer would use one."

"But they make such a nice clicking noise!" said Hisoka. “I even used it on myself, once or twice. The one in my lip didn’t take, but I still have several holes in my ears.” 

Illumi's eye twitched. Thankfully, the waitress arrived with their drinks, so he forwent a response in favor of a large gulp of wine.

"I also worked at The Heretic for a while," said Hisoka. "But I think you knew that already."

"It was in your records, yes."

"That's not what I meant." Hisoka’s expression turned sly. "Do you really not recognize me?"

Illumi set down his glass, half-drained. He squinted at Hisoka, wracking his memory for lookalikes at the nightclub, but he was bad with faces. "No," he said at last. "I do not."

Hisoka reached into his blazer's inner pocket.

Illumi opened his mouth to inform him that he was not allowed to smoke inside, but left it hanging uselessly when he saw that the object in Hisoka’s hands was not a pack of cigarettes, but a deck of cards.

Oh. _Oh._

" _You're_ the Queen of Hearts?" he exclaimed.  
  
"Guilty as charged." Hisoka began shuffling the deck. "I thought you knew."

Though she'd been absent from the scene for years, the Queen of Hearts had been a crowd favorite at The Heretic in its youth. Illumi dimly recalled her working as a bouncer as well as a drag performer, but he hadn't put two and two together. 

"I never heard your voice," he mumbled, taking another sip of wine. There had been a particularly drunken evening when he'd shoved a thousand jenny bill into the Queen of Heart's gaff while she kneeled at the front of the stage. She'd blown him a kiss in thanks before returning to her lip sync battle with the resident goth queen, Thursday Addams. "I would have recognized your voice."

“Oh, would you?” purred Hisoka. “Why’s that?” 

“It is...distinctive.” 

The waitress interrupted before Hisoka could push him to elaborate. 

When they had ordered their food—a fragrant vegetarian dish for Illumi, a kind of pan-seared poultry for Hisoka—the man resumed shuffling his cards. There was a gleam in his eye Illumi did not altogether care for.

"Would you like to play a game?" he asked.

"Here?"

Hisoka hummed his affirmation. "You've seen me on stage; you know I'm something of a magician."

Card tricks had been the Queen of Heart's titular gimmick, but they were a brief aspect of her performance at most. It was a drag show, after all, not a magic show. Illumi had never much cared for magic.

"Try to guess how the trick works," said Hisoka. "Watch."

He fanned out the cards and turned them towards Illumi. "Would you agree that these are sufficiently shuffled?"

Illumi leaned in, humoring him for the moment. The cards appeared to be in a random order. "Yes." 

"Good." Hisoka collapsed the deck into a neat stack and placed the cards face-down on the table. "Cut the deck," he said. "Anywhere you'd like."

Illumi eyed the red filigree on the back of the top card. He wasn't sure where Hisoka was going with this, but he was reasonably certain he could figure it out.

He split the deck with one hand, polishing off his wine with the other.

"Now," said Hisoka, tapping the stack to Illumi's left, "the third card in this stack is going to tell me what the third card in the other stack is."

Picking up the first few cards in the left stack, Hisoka turned the bottom card towards himself, then placed it back on top. "That card just told me that the third card in the _other_ stack is the ace of hearts."

Hisoka plucked the first three cards from the right stack and showed the bottom card to Illumi. Sure enough, it was the ace of hearts.

Illumi frowned. "May I see it again?"

"Of course. Would you like to shuffle this time?"

Shrugging, Illumi held out his hand. When Hisoka passed him the deck, he noticed that two of the man's pink fingernails had been clipped short; the rest remained long and pointed. It took a moment for the implications of this to choice to take form in Illumi's mind.

He passed the shuffled deck back without meeting the man's eyes, trying to quell the storm in his stomach.

"Are you watching?" asked Hisoka.

Illumi raised his eyes, looking carefully at the fanned-out cards. The waitress approached to replace his wine; he murmured his thanks without diverting his gaze.

"Split the deck, same as before"

He obeyed. Hisoka finished the trick again, correctly predicting the identity of the third card. Illumi steepled his hands and stared for a long moment.

"It is a red herring," he said at last. "The third card in the left deck has nothing to do with the third card in the right deck. You are identifying the third card when you show me all of the cards, at the beginning of the trick."

"Very good! You've uncovered the core tenet of magic: misdirection." He began shuffling the cards again. "Would you like to try a different trick?"

Illumi shrugged, toying with the stem of his wine glass. It was better than listening to him extol the virtues of piercing guns.

"Good. Then how about we make it a little more interesting?" The strange gleam in his eyes seemed to brighten, catching the light of the chandelier. "If you can figure out my trick, I'll tell you a piece of information you want, or I'll do something you want. If you can't figure it out, you'll do something for me."

Illumi's eyes narrowed. "You'll do anything? Or give me any piece of information?"

"That's right."

He considered the proposal. He could ask Hisoka to kill as many members of the Troupe as he could before their counterstrike, but such a prodigious request was sure to have an equally prodigious consequence, were he to lose. There was one relatively small thing that he had been itching to know, however.

"If I correctly guess your trick," Illumi said slowly, "I want you to tell me why you want Chrollo alive."

"Done." Hisoka smiled. "Now, if you _can't_ figure it out," he lowered his voice, forcing Illumi to lean in to hear him properly, “I want you to…” 

Illumi felt the heat rise to his face as Hisoka whispered his demands. "No," he snapped. "Not here."

"Aww, Illu." Hisoka stuck out his lower lip. "The tablecloth is plenty long. If you're careful, no one will see you."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" Hisoka's lips peeled back from his teeth, his smile giving way to a grin that filled Illumi with liquid fire. "Scared you'll lose?"

"No. Illumi shrugged off his blazer, setting it on the back of the chair; he was beginning to sweat, though he’d thought the restaurant cold when he’d arrived. "Our food will be here soon, is all. I do not want to do anything that requires me to leave my seat."

"Then we'll save it for dessert. Unless you have other objections?” 

Illumi took a deep breath. He wasn't surprised that Hisoka would make such a vulgar request—the man was nothing if not lascivious—but he was horrified with himself for actually considering it. He would probably win, anyway; he possessed an analytical mind and a keen eye that had made magic tricks dull from a young age. And if he lost, well...would it really be so bad? It was nothing he hadn't done before in private, and Hisoka was right about the tablecloth. It nearly skirted the ground. 

"Fine,” said Illumi. “Get on with it."

Hisoka fanned out the deck, faces toward Illumi. "Pick any card. Don't show it to me."

Illumi plucked out the king of spades and held it in his damp palm.

"Now put it back," said Hisoka, looking up towards the ceiling. "I won't watch."

He placed the card in the middle of the deck, then wiped his hands on his black slacks.

"Now," Hisoka shuffled with a flourish, "I'm going to bring your card to the top of the deck."

Holding the stack in his left hand, Hisoka flipped the top card over with his right, revealing the nine of diamonds. "Is this your card?"

"No," said Illumi.

"Ah! My mistake. Here." He placed the card facedown on the table, next to Illumi's rapidly diminishing glass of wine.

"How about now?" This time the top card was the ace of clubs.

"Wrong again," said Illumi. "You aren't very good at this."

"I'm a little rusty," admitted Hisoka. "But I'll bet I can change this card for you. Watch." He waved his hand over the ace of clubs; when it passed over it a second time, it seemed to morph into the nine of diamonds.

Illumi's eyes flicked between the card in Hisoka's hand and the one facedown next to his glass.

"But if this is the nine of diamonds," said Hisoka, grinning like a cat, "then I suppose you've had your card all along, Illu."

Illumi picked up the card on the table; sure enough, it was the king of spades. He frowned at it.

"Once more?" asked Hisoka.

"Yes."

Even knowing where the trick was going, Illumi found it hard to follow. Hisoka's hands were deft and quick; he was no amateur, though that was clearly what he'd wanted Illumi to believe. His heart began to flutter in his chest. Was he going to lose?

"One last time?" asked Hisoka, once he’d finished the trick.

Illumi nodded, his mouth dry.

He’d seen the hand-waving trick before. When Hisoka passed his hand over one card, he simply lifted the second card from underneath it and slipped it over the first. The rest was probably a variation on the same theme—switching the top two cards around—but it was impossible to be sure. Mostly, he was baffled that Hisoka looked away when he placed the card back in the deck; anyone could follow a card with their eyes, but the man had no way of tracing it otherwise. Did he?

Illumi made a point of inverting his card before replacing it the third time, in case there was an asymmetry to the design which was tipping Hisoka off, but the trick played out seamlessly. Damn.

"So?" Hisoka licked his lips. "I'm waiting."

"I'm thinking," said Illumi. The fluttering in his chest had grown to a thunderous pounding, and blood roared in his ears. "Hold on."

If Hisoka wasn't looking at the card when he replaced it, then maybe his method was tactile? If he could feel the card sliding against his finger, perhaps that was enough to locate it in the deck. It seemed unlikely, but Illumi couldn't think of any other explanation.

"If I am wrong the first time," ventured Illumi, "do I get another guess?"

"Mmm." Hisoka pursed his lips. "No."

A beat later the waitress brought their food. Hisoka began to eat as soon as his plate touched the table, but he did not for an instant take his eyes off Illumi.

Illumi thanked her and gingerly picked up his fork. He looked toward the ceiling in exasperation, willing the answer to come to him; he caught a glimpse of his own taut expression in a strip of mirror between two wood panels.

"Wait," he said aloud.

Hisoka swallowed his mouthful of food. "Yes?"

"You are using the ceiling. When I first put my card in the deck, you can see its reflection." 

Hisoka chuckled and shook his head. "I almost had you. But yes, that's right. Can you explain the rest?"

Relief rushed through him like a cool draught. But as he talked through the steps, Hisoka nodding intermittently, Illumi couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment; it was as if some small and secret part of himself had _wanted_ to lose. 

"Very good," said Hisoka, once he’d finished. "Do you want your reward now, or after we eat?"

"After. I have worked up a considerable appetite."

His meal, a hearty dish of minced mushrooms and onion, was delicious as ever; after sampling half the items on the menu, Illumi had settled on it as his favorite, and now seldom ordered anything else. He was not a picky eater per se, but he preferred consistency to adventurousness in his diet.

Hisoka finished eating first. Shuffling his cards one final time, he returned the deck to his blazer pocket, then flagged down their waitress for another drink. Illumi ordered coffee.

"Expecting a late night?" asked Hisoka. The tone was innocuous enough, but Illumi could read the intent beneath his words.

"Maybe," he replied, scraping his plate clean. "Maybe not. Are you going to tell me your business with Chrollo?"

"Of course. I was simply waiting for you to finish." Hisoka polished off his drink. Illumi wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, then folded it delicately on top of his plate.

"I am finished.” 

"Well then, it's really quite simple. I don't want you to kill Chrollo because _I_ want to kill Chrollo."

Illumi blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I do love to hear you beg," Hisoka quipped. "But you heard correctly. It’s important that I'm the one to kill Chrollo, and that he's good health at the time. Killing an injured man isn’t half as fun, you see."

Though he had suspected Hisoka's feelings for the Troupe leader were more complicated than simple friendship, this was not at all what Illumi had expected. "Why?" he asked, head spinning with more than just the wine. "What did Chrollo do to you?"

"What did he—? Ah, no. It's not like that. Chrollo hasn't done anything to me. In fact, I consider him a friend."

Illumi's brow creased in confusion. Hisoka was making less sense by the second. "Then why...?" He stopped himself short. Their waitress was drawing near, carrying his mug of coffee in one hand and Hisoka's thin glass of champagne in the other. It was only Hisoka's second drink; Illumi had imbibed a fair bit more.

"Then why are you trying to kill him?" he finished, once the woman was out of earshot.

"Because I like to break powerful men," said Hisoka, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I like to destroy their little empires, kill their friends, steal their lovers, until there's nothing left but the man himself, shattered and sniveling, feeling smaller than he ever thought he could feel." He spoke with a certain nostalgic lilt that led Illumi to believe he had done this before. "And then there's nothing left to do but break his pretty neck, of course."

"Oh," said Illumi. He took a gulp of coffee and let it scald his throat, wondering if he met Hisoka's definition of powerful. Though he was not the head of the Zoldyck family as Chrollo was the head of the spiders, their positions were too similar for comfort. "If that is how you treat your friends, I would hate to be your enemy."

Hisoka smiled and raised his glass.

"Did you ever sleep with Chrollo?" asked Illumi, before he could think better of it. The wine had loosened his tongue, sure enough; a sober Illumi would have called for the bill as soon as Hisoka started talking about murder in lustful tones.

"Mmm, almost. He let me suck him off once. I was very insistent, you see. But he told me he didn't want to do it again, that it had been a mistake. Something about not sleeping with anyone in the Troupe." He shook his head. "Of course, if I'd known _that_ , I might have waited to join until I could get him into bed. But he is rather impossible to pin down, both, ah, literally and figuratively, so it's probably for the best I joined when I did."

"Uh-huh. And would you still be trying to kill him, if he had agreed to a sexual relationship?" 

Hisoka cocked his head, as if the notion hadn't previously occurred to him. "Mmm, I'm not sure. It certainly wouldn't be as urgent."

"I see." Illumi supposed that was better than a 'yes,' though it did not make him feel any safer. Not that he ever felt particularly safe around Hisoka, but part of him had hoped he might grow to be. Ah well. Such sentimental desires were easily quelled; or at least they had been easily quelled in the past. Nothing felt certain where Hisoka was concerned.

Seeming to sense the shift in Illumi's mood, Hisoka reached across the table to grasp his hand. "Hey," he said. "Don't look at me like that. I have no immediate plans to kill you."

"How heartwarming.” 

"I mean it." His voice dropped in pitch, a deep rumble Illumi felt in his bones. "I haven't even fucked you properly yet."

"So I am safe so long as I keep sleeping with you?"

"Now, I didn't say _that_ …” Hisoka’s mouth twitched. “Then again, why take the risk?"

Illumi snorted. "You are horrible."

"I've been called worse."

The din was fading as the closing hour approached; less than half the tables were still occupied, and only a few sips remained of Illumi's coffee. He waved the waitress over and requested the bill.

"You'll be wanting to hear about the meeting, I assume?" said Hisoka.

"That was the entire purpose of this dinner, yes."

"Well, it's a warm night." Hisoka rested his chin on his hand. "How about I tell you about it on the walk home?"

"Home?"

"Your apartment. You're welcome to come to mine, if you prefer, though it's fair bit further."

Illumi wiped his palms on the tablecloth and cast a glance at the returning waitress. The smells and sounds of the restaurant seemed suddenly to grate on him—a woman's high, tittering laugh, the scrape of metal forks against ceramic plates—and he was itching to taste the open air. "My apartment will suffice," he said, retrieving his wallet from his pants' pocket. "Try not to look so smug about it."

"Smug?" Hisoka splayed a hand on his own chest. "I'm just happy you've come to your senses."

Not dignifying that with a response, Illumi counted out a few bills and set them next to the paper receipt. "Let's go," he said, shrugging on his blazer.

Hisoka rose to follow.

Though not as warm as it had been when he'd arrived at the restaurant, the night air was still balmy, a soft wind pressing in from the west. The smell of Yorknew in the spring was not uniformly pleasant—fetid pools clogged with litter punctuated the uneven sidewalks, and the pungent stench of car exhaust was inescapable—but the wind suffused the air with salt from the nearby ocean, and as they walked Illumi savored the scent.

Apparently, Chrollo had decided to keep more than half of his people in the dark about the details of their counterstrike; a smart move, given Hisoka's involvement with the Zoldycks, but an unprecedented one. When Hisoka baited him with information, Illumi had assumed there would be more to tell: all he had was the address of the warehouse where his team would be stationed, and the vague knowledge of a second team stationed elsewhere in Yorknew. Hisoka could not even pin down a date; Chrollo would message them all sometime in the next week with a three-hour warning. At least his spiel about killing Chrollo had been insightful. The rest was hardly worth the cost of their meal.

"Well," said Illumi, fumbling with his keys, "if nothing else, your phone will work this time. And my people will also benefit from the three hour warning."

"True." Hisoka leaned against the wrought iron handrail, looking up from the foot of the stoop. The distance was not so great (there were only ten steps leading up to Illumi’s building) but it was strange seeing him at a high angle.

"Are you coming in?" asked Illumi.

"Are you inviting me?" Hisoka’s voice was low, cloying, deceptively soft. He lifted a foot to the lowest step.

"Yes. And you’d better hurry, before I actually come to my senses and lock you out."

Laughing, Hisoka ascended the stairs. He slipped inside just as the door was about to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably post the sex scenes for this fic separately when I get them written. In the meantime, [here's](https://imgur.com/6RsESmu) an artistic rendition.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning sun slanted through venetian blinds. It first touched the white head of an immaculately folded paper crane, which guarded the window in silent solemnity. It then drifted across the gray carpet, onto the quilted duvet—this item clung to the foot of a king-sized bed, the majority of its bulk slouched uselessly on the floor—and at last came to rest on the back of Illumi's thigh, olive-toned against cool white. His lower leg and midsection were tangled in the sheets, and a blue towel had been placed beneath him, though it was gradually migrating towards the edge of the bed, as if eager to join the duvet on the floor.

Illumi stirred, blinked, and looked over his shoulder, mistaking the warmth of sunlight for human touch. Seeing no hand on his thigh, he let his head fall back against the pillow, eyeing the indentation next to him with a mixture of disappointment and relief. Hisoka must have departed in the night.

He allowed himself to doze a while longer, but the sunlight soon reached the level of his face, kindling a dull throb in his temples. Despite the previous night's coffee, he was a little hung over, and more than a little sleep deprived. The red glimmer of dawn had been seeping into the sky when he'd finally fallen asleep, shaking with exhaustion, spent in more ways than one. Stretching his legs, he found that the weakness in his thighs had evolved into a deep, aching soreness. He groaned.

Disentangling himself from the sheets, Illumi staggered to his feet, rubbing his hamstrings. The towel slid to the ground after him; it had been a nice thought, but he was going to need to wash his linens.

Laundry could wait, however. Four days had passed since the Padokia debacle, and he’d put off meeting with his father long enough. They needed to discuss what he'd learned from Hisoka so they could plan their second strike, and at least draft the skeleton of a counterattack, in case the Troupe struck first.

Pulling on a clean pair of boxer-briefs, Illumi stumbled into his kitchen. If he was going to be of use to anyone, he needed a cup of coffee. Preferably several cups.

While the pot was percolating, he gathered his bedding into a pile and tossed the towel into a separate bin. He showered briefly, twisting his hair in a high bun to keep it dry. The hot water soothed all his aches save one, and there was nothing he could do for _that_ but admonish himself for skimping on lubricant.

He was picking through his closet for a suitable outfit—he would need something with a high collar to hide the massacre on his neck—when the knock came.

Hastily donning a sleeveless black turtleneck and mauve slacks, Illumi padded into the narrow hall that connected the bedroom to the rest of his apartment. Judas, who had grudgingly spent the night on the couch, was standing on his hind legs, scratching at the door.

Perhaps Hisoka had returned after some errand, hoping for another round (he would be disappointed—Illumi was in no shape for it), or perhaps it was his father, saving him a trip to the office. But as he brought his eye to the peephole, the face that came into view belonged to neither of these men; indeed, it did not belong to any associate of the Zoldyck syndicate. It belonged to a man he had not at all expected to see at his door, especially not so soon.

Jerking back as if burned, Illumi retreated to his bedroom to get the revolver from his nightstand. He flipped open its cylinder as he returned to the door, confirming all six chambers were full. Good. With Hisoka no longer under contract, he was, technically speaking, allowed to kill Chrollo Lucilfer. Though he preferred to keep on Hisoka’s good side (at least for the time being) he felt better with the weapon in his hand.

"Why are you here?" asked Illumi, cracking open the door. It occurred to him too late that he should have grabbed his phone; if this visit were part of the Troupe's plan, then Hisoka should have texted him three hours prior. Illumi hadn't checked his messages yet that morning, and he mentally kicked himself for his negligence.

"I'm just here to talk." Chrollo was dressed simply, in a gray T-shirt and faded jeans that had probably once been black. The man carried no visible weapon, but the apparent absence made Illumi no less uneasy. He glanced back at the window in his living room, an expanse of glass that covered half the wall; a few clouds scudded across the sky, just above the adjacent building, yet another apartment complex. Dark windows studded its brick exterior. There was more than one skilled sniper in the Phantom Troupe, and with his blinds drawn up to let in the morning light, Illumi was making himself an easy target.

"May I come in?" asked Chrollo.

Illumi studied him for a moment, hoping to glean some intent from his expression, but he was never skilled at reading people.

He unlatched the lock, pulling the door part way open. "Mind the cat," he said. Judas was eyeing the opening, shoulders shifting beneath black fur. He pounced as Chrollo stepped through the door, colliding with the man's shin; his escape thwarted, he skittered away, claws sliding against the hardwood.

"I like cats," said Chrollo, watching the animal careen into the bedroom. "Shame I'm allergic."

Illumi did not respond; he was not about to engage the leader of the Phantom Troupe in smalltalk. "I am going to pour myself a cup of coffee," he said. "Would you mind closing the blinds?"

"Sure." Chrollo started towards the window, then paused. "There’s no one waiting outside to shoot you, if that is your concern. Might as well enjoy the sun."

Illumi grabbed a mug from the kitchen cabinet and filled it to the brim one-handed, neither setting down his gun nor taking his eyes off Chrollo. His apartment was open-concept; there was no barrier between the kitchen and the living room, and aside from the bathroom, there was no real place to hide. 

"Forgive me for not taking your word for it." 

Chrollo smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. "Consider yourself forgiven."

With the blinds closed, the room darkened by several shades. Illumi sat across from Chrollo, holding the revolver beneath the table, pointed loosely at the man's feet. He took a sip of coffee with his free hand, then set the mug on one of his coasters. "You said you came here to talk. So talk."

Chrollo inclined his head. "Very well. I'm here to make you an offer." He folded his hands on the table, and Illumi was suddenly struck by how innocuous he looked; his expression was almost kindly, and there was no danger in his demeanor, as there was with Hisoka. Though Illumi knew he was two years older than himself, the man looked younger, in part due to his stature. He was not small, exactly—he was certainly more muscular than Illumi—but he looked almost...average. Especially compared to Hisoka, he was hardly an intimidating presence.  
  
Perhaps that was the danger of Chrollo Lucilfer: it's hard to dodge a bullet you don't see coming.

"Did Hisoka give you the address of our temporary base?" said Chrollo.

Illumi narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want you to go there—you and your father, alone, with five billion jenny."

"Or what?"

Chrollo displayed his palms, a gesture of openness. Though there was no danger, there was a quiet sense of power about him that would have unsettled Illumi, were he not already aware of the man's reputation. "I can't say. But if you bring the money, I guarantee that only you and Silva risk harm. If you refuse my offer, the involvement of other parties will become inevitable."

"Other parties?"

Chrollo smiled. "I can say no more. Do you accept?"

Illumi took another sip of coffee, though Chrollo's arrival had shaken sleep from his mind more effectively than caffeine ever could. "Do you honestly expect me to agree to that?"

"No. Still, I wanted to extend the courtesy."

"If that is all, then..." Illumi nodded towards the exit. "I have work to do, you see."

"Of course." Chrollo rose to his feet; Illumi mirrored the motion. "I'll leave you to it."

The man was nearly at the door, his hand reaching for the knob, when Illumi spoke again:

"You could have called.” He stood with one hand on the back of the couch, revolver aimed at the floor. "You could have texted, or tossed a stone through my window with a note attached. But you came here in person." He cocked his head. "Why?"

Chrollo cast a look over his shoulder, expression indecipherable. "I was curious." 

"About what?"

"Hisoka sees something in you." Chrollo gave him a once-over, flashing a final mirthless smile. "It seems he and I have dissimilar tastes."

The man was gone before Illumi processed the insult. He'd been itching to shoot Chrollo the second he'd crossed the threshold, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to resist, should another opportunity present itself. Head pounding, partly with the hangover, partly with annoyance, he ambled towards the bedroom in search of his phone.

After a few minutes he spotted it under his bed, barely charged but still on. There were several missed calls, and one missed text; the latter was from Hisoka, sent nearly four hours prior. It read simply:

_We’re starting ❤︎_

Illumi swore under his breath. One of the missed calls was from the Zoldyck landline, but the rest were from unknown numbers—probably his father, assuming he’d be more keen to answer if he didn’t know who was calling. Extracting one of several burner phones from his nightstand, he punched in Silva’s work number. It trilled only once before the man picked up.

"Silva Zoldyck speaking."

Illumi took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Hello, Father."

"Illumi? Where the fuck have you been?" Silva's voice, dripping with ire, punctured him quicker than any needle. His father hadn't hit him in nearly a decade (thanks to hard work and therapy, at least according to his mother), but Illumi still felt a lurch in his stomach whenever the man sounded angry.

"Busy," he said, his tone clipped. "The Troupe are on the move today. I just received a visit from Chrollo Lucilfer."

"And you didn't kill him?"

"It did not seem wise."

He could hear Silva exhale on the other end of the line. "What did he want?"

"For you and I to deliver money to a warehouse near the coast. I refused. He did not make his threat explicit, but I have reason to believe they are making their move as we speak, if they haven't made it already." Illumi pulled his bulletproof vest out of his closet and shrugged it on over his shirt. "Have you seen anything suspicious at the office?"

"No," said Silva. "Do you know where to find this place?"

"I do. I'll text you the location from this number."

"What happened to your cell phone?"

"It is dying."

Silva sighed. "Of course it is. I'm on my way, be in front of your shop in ten minutes."

The line went dead, and it was Illumi's turn to exhale.  
  


* * *

  
He risked a slightly longer path to Needle Eye in the interest of staying off the main street. If he was late, his father would be angry, but he preferred an angry Silva to a bullet in his skull. Half the Troupe were in an abandoned warehouse near the coast, but the other half could be anywhere. 

Skulking around the side of the building, Illumi popped his head out to look at the street. It was a weekday; kids were in school, adults were at work, and there was very little traffic at 9:00AM. Seeing that Silva's car hadn't arrived yet, he started back into the alley when he saw the figure hunched near the front of his shop.

"Don't move," said Illumi, raising his revolver. He kept his face half hidden behind the brick corner, ready to take cover.

The man—no, the child—leapt to his feet. There was an ugly scrape on his cheek, and his tousled hair stood up in flagrant denial of gravity. He clutched a white envelope in both hands.

"I said don't move," repeated Illumi, but he had already holstered his gun. He was not in the habit of pointing weapons at children. "Who are you?"

"Are you Killua's brother?" asked the boy, shifting from leg to leg. The envelope was terribly wrinkled, as if he'd been wringing it in his hands.

"I am," said Illumi, ignoring the inkling of dread he felt at the mention of his brother's name. "Why do you ask?"

The boy's face twisted into grimace. He held out the envelope, sniffing obstinately; it took a moment for Illumi to realize he was trying not to cry.

He took the envelope with a trembling hand.

It had already been opened, presumably by the boy. Its contents consisted of a single piece of paper, onto which a message had been printed in block letters:  
  


_Bring 5 billion jenny to previously discussed location or we kill all three.  
  
_

Illumi's heart dropped into his stomach.  
  
He should have asked his mother to keep the kids home until the Troupe was dealt with. He should have insisted Kurapika escort them to school. He should have done something, anything at all, but instead he'd wasted the early hours away, replaying bedroom scenes behind closed eyes while the conspirator who'd fucked him rejoined the spiders, maybe for good.

A wave of nausea swept through him, but he managed to keep his coffee down.

"Hey!" shouted the boy. "What are you doing?"

He was standing in front of Illumi now, brows knitted in anger, hands balled into little fists. Illumi blinked. 

"We've gotta go rescue Killua right now!" 

"We?" Illumi said weakly.

"Yeah, you and me! You know where they're keeping them, don't you?"

"Yes." Illumi focused on the ground beneath his boots; gradually the world stopped reeling, and rage welled up to replace his fear. " _I_ am going," he said. " _You_ are twelve."

"I'm gonna help," said the boy. "Killua's my—he's my—" Something caught in his throat, and he seemed to struggle not to cry again. "He's my best friend in the whole world!"

Illumi sighed. "What is your name?"

"Gon," said the boy.

"Gon, have you ever fired a gun?"

"No."

"Well the men who took him have a lot of guns," said Illumi. "And they are going to be firing them at us, and we will have to shoot them back. You are likely to get hurt or killed, and what use will you be to Killua then?"

"I don't care. I'm going."

Illumi sighed again. A black armoured vehicle was pulling around the corner; one of his father's cars at last. "Go home, Gon," he said, walking up to the curb. "Killua will call you as soon as he can."

He could hear the boy's shouts of protest even through the car's thick exterior. For more than half a kilometer he ran after them, frantically waving his arms, but eventually he was lost from sight.

"What was Gon doing at your shop?" muttered Silva, eyeing the diminishing figure in the rearview mirror.

Illumi and his father sat in the first row of back seats, two armed guards in the rear, two in front. Silva's favored guard, the former head of security at the Padokia estate, drove the car steadily west along 101st street.

"The boy was delivering this." Illumi handed him the wrinkled envelope. 

Silva read the note in silence, his expression grim. When he spoke again he did not sound quite as angry as he had over the phone, but he seemed strained in a way Illumi liked even less. "I just got off the phone with your mother. Killua, Alluka, and Kalluto never made it to school today."

Illumi said nothing; there was nothing he could say. Over and over, he pictured Chrollo Lucilfer at his doorstep, only this time he would raise the revolver to the cross on his forehead and pull the trigger, Hisoka be damned.

"Gotoh," said Silva, addressing the driver. "Take us home. I need to retrieve money from the vault before our errand."

"Yes, sir," said Gotoh.

Illumi folded his hands in his lap, willing them not to shake.

"Did you learn anything else besides the location of the warehouse that might be useful to us?" A note of anger had crept back into Silva's voice. That was fine; if his father was searching for someone to blame, Illumi was as good a choice as any.

"No, I did not."

"I find that very interesting, considering the duration of your visit with—Hisoka, was it?"

A prickle of embarrassment began its slow crawl up the back of Illumi's neck. Now more than ever he was grateful for his turtleneck, though there was still one bruise visible at the base of his jaw. He tugged his hair forward, conscious of its presence.

"Milluki called me this morning," explained Silva. "Says you two arrived at the building around 10:00PM, and that Hisoka didn't leave until well past 4 in the morning."

Damn Milluki. He never could keep his nose where it belonged.

"Care to explain?" 

"No." Illumi fixed his gaze on the back of the seat in front of him. "It is none of your business."

Suddenly a hand grasped his bicep. It sank deep enough that he might have cried out, had he not learned long since to swallow cries of pain. He looked up at his father, the only indicator of his mood a faint flush of anger, or perhaps of shame.

"It is my business if my son is sleeping with a man who helped kidnap my children," he said. "Your little boyfriend was not useful enough during our first raid, and he's worse than useless now."

"Maybe so. But maybe he was telling the truth—he claimed Chrollo was concealing the plan from most of the spiders." 

Silva released his arm, his lip curled in disgust. "You'd defend him even now?"

"I am not defending him." Illumi's stomach roiled beneath his father's expression, but his voice stayed calm and even. "He cannot be trusted. But it is just as likely that he is a defector, as he claims, than a loyal member of the Troupe. He may help us yet." 

"I'm not counting on it," said Silva. 

"Nor am I.” 

The car pulled into a concrete driveway. The Zoldyck's Yorknew residence was not large compared to the Padokia estate, but it was well maintained. It had been more than enough space when there were seven occupants; now there were only five, and none of the children had to share a bedroom. 

Illumi imagined the house without his siblings—the windows bereft of Kalluto's innumerable origami animals—the hardwood floors polished clean, with no skid marks from Killua's skateboard (which he continued to use indoors, despite Kikyo's shrill protests)—none of Alluka's watercolor portraits on the refrigerator. His chest tightened. As bile gnawed at the back of his throat, he began to wish he'd had something for breakfast other than coffee. 

"Gotoh. Hishita," called Silva, flinging open his door. "Come with me to the vault." 

Knowing better than to offer assistance, Illumi pushed his nails into the palm of his hand and awaited their return.   
  


* * *

  
"So," said Feitan. "Are we going to kill them?"

Chrollo took a drag on his cigarette, not looking away from the window. Through the clouded panes, he could just make out a broken, blue-gray line above an expanse of white: the ocean, partly obscured by rolling dunes. "Depends." 

"On what?"

"On Silva." He tapped his cigarette, adding another sprinkle of ash to the pile on the windowsill. "If he brings the money, and allows himself and Illumi to be killed, we'll let them go."

"Is that wise?" Feitan kicked the oldest child in the leg, hard enough to provoke a muffled shout. "These kids grow up and they're not gonna be too friendly with the Troupe. With Silva's resources, what's stopping them from coming after us a few years down the line?"

"Afraid of a few children, Feitan?" teased Hisoka. "I suppose I can see why. The white-haired one is taller than you."

Not taking the bait, Feitan continued: "Makes more sense to kill them all together, while they're here. Take out Silva and Illumi first, sure, but kill the kids after."

"I agree with Feitan," said Phinks, from a few paces away. "Why make more trouble for ourselves? Things might've gone a lot better last time if we hadn't accidentally spared that Kurta kid."

Wind soughed through the warehouse doors. Chrollo could hear the dull roar of the ocean, crashing against Yorknew’s litter-strewn shore. He sighed, turning around. "How many of you think we should kill them?"

Feitan, Phinks, Machi, Franklin, and Bonolenov raised their hands. Nobunaga shrugged his shoulders and spoke:

"We're short two members now. They seem like smart kids. Why not take 'em in?"

"You really think they'd join the Troupe after we kill their dad and brother?" asked Machi.

Nobunaga pursed his lips. "Maybe kill the oldest one," he said. "Or the oldest two. Young kids don't remember too well. We could at least take the little one."

"I'd be okay with that," said Shizuku.

Chrollo inclined his head, shifting his gaze to the Zoldyck children. Nobu’s team had bound them each individually, then tied them together for ease of transport. Gagged but not blindfolded, he could see their eyes: the youngest two red and puffy with tears, brows drawn up in fear. The oldest, however, was not crying. He met Chrollo's gaze, eyes cold and unwavering. 

"What about you, Hisoka?" asked Chrollo. "You're not usually so quiet." 

Hisoka stood apart from the rest, watching the east-facing window for approaching vehicles. "It makes no difference to me," he said, looking over his shoulder. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd like to be the one to kill Illumi."

"We've all got beef with Illumi," said Phinks. "If you wanna kill him you'd better shoot quick."

"Oh, don't worry." Hisoka turned back to the road. "I will."

There was a beat of silence, then Feitan spoke again. "So what are we doing about the kids? Sounds like most of us think we should kill the oldest one, anyway."

"Yes," said Chrollo. "Seems that way." He slipped a hand into his pocket, fishing out a golden coin, about the size of a quarter. "Heads, we kill them all. Tails, we take in the youngest two, as Nobu suggested. Is that amenable?"

The spiders exchanged looks, murmuring in agreement. 

"Good." Chrollo set the coin on the back of his thumb, the twelve-legged spider gleaming in the low light. There was a small _clink_ as he flicked it into the air; it peaked at eye level, seeming to pause in front of him before it began its rapid descent. He caught it on the back of one hand and covered it with his opposite palm.

The Troupe was watching him with mild interest—save Hisoka, who was still acting as lookout—but the Zoldyck children were riveted, eyes wide, silent behind their gags.

Chrollo lifted his hand, smiled, and dropped into a crouch. "Look." He turned the coin towards the children. A spider's web covered its surface, threads of gold on top of gold. "That's tails," he said. "How do you feel about joining us?"

The girl made a noise which could only mean displeasure, but she quieted when the older boy elbowed her. Though he knew he was going to die either way, his expression had softened after learning his siblings, at least, would survive.

"A car's coming," said Hisoka, squinting into the light. The sun was high overhead, and the tall grass cast no shadow on the sand. "More than one car."

The Troupe took their places: Machi, Feitan, and Phinks at the entrance, flattened against the corrugated wall. Bonolenov, Shalnark, and Kortopi crouched behind a heap of rotting cardboard boxes. The welcoming party, consisting of Chrollo, Franklin, and Nobu, stood behind the Zoldyck children; Franklin and Nobu kept their rifles trained on the kids, while Chrollo pointed his towards the open doorway. Hisoka and Shizuku guarded the back door, which had been loosely barricaded with cinder blocks and rubble, but through which the Zoldycks might still try to enter.

A growing rumble of engines drowned the sounds of the sea. Chrollo caught four flashes of black, passing a few yards from the doorway. Four cars. No more than twenty men. Far fewer than they'd dealt with in Padokia, and now they were on their own turf. The death of Silva Zoldyck, who had killed two of the former ten Dons in his rise to power, would shake the criminal underworld to its foundations. The spiders were already feared, but soon they would be unrivaled, untouchable.

Chrollo nodded to Machi's group. The engines sputtered into silence. Letting his rifle fall to his side, he started towards the door with slow, even strides.

It was time to welcome their guests.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sifting through "Self Editing for Fiction Writers" (a book I highly recommend) and consequently picking at my posted works more than usual. I've cleaned up the early chapters quite a bit, especially the dialogue; if you decide to reread them, I hope you find the story flows better than it did the first time around. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter!

The car sped down the narrow highway.

Yorknew lay east, a cluster of skyscrapers in the tinted rear window. Gas stations, tourist traps, and fast food joints zipped by, partly covered by a line of maple trees, whose branches were tipped with new green. Three identical black vehicles followed a few car-lengths behind—together they carried eighteen people, all of the Zoldyck forces that could be summoned at such short notice. Illumi did not think it was going to be enough.

From a young age, his father had included him in the family business. Learning how to defend himself had been a priority, and the man had taken him to their private firing range as soon as he was old enough to hold a gun. It made him feel secure, at least for a while. But despite his own skill with weaponry and his family's vast influence, he never dismissed the possibility of death. It seemed foolish to do so; the former Don of the Yorbian continent had thought himself invincible until a Zoldyck operative put a bullet in his brain, and Illumi was acutely aware that the same fate could befall himself, or his father, at any time. It was the nature of the business. But he had never been prepared to sacrifice his siblings. 

Killua was skilled with a gun, and keener than Illumi had been at his age; he would take Silva's place when the time came, whether Illumi was alive or not. They would save him, and they would save Alluka, and they would save Kalluto. Any deaths incurred during the rescue were acceptable, even his own. 

The car slowed, following the northerly curve of the exit ramp. White sand was infecting the landscape—sinking its fingers between shrubs, turning the black road dusty gray. A long, squat building gradually came into view, and Illumi thought of his own headstone, a new addition to the family plot; then he thought of sand sweeping over him instead, concealing his corpse from searching eyes, of decomposing in the dunes.

Still trembling, now more with adrenaline than with caffeine, Illumi felt a strange sense of buoyancy, like if he unbuckled his seatbelt he would simply pass through the ceiling and float away.

"You ready?" asked Silva.

"Yes," said Illumi. He fingered his revolver as they pulled into the warehouse parking lot. There were two black vans parked out back—presumably the Troupe's—but the cracked and sunbaked tarmac was otherwise empty.

"Illumi and I go in alone," said Silva. "If the kids come outside without us, you take them in this car and go—don’t wait. Kurapika and the others will deal with the Troupe. And no shooting until the kids are safe. Got it?"

"Got it," said Gotoh. "I'll relay your orders to the others."

"And Illumi?" said Silva.

"Yes, Father?"

"Let me do the talking." 

Illumi nodded, holstering his gun. Gotoh pulled through the lot to make room for the other three cars, halting beside the warehouse's doorless flank.

Silva immediately threw open his door, heading first to the trunk to retrieve the ransom money. Illumi followed, taking two of the four duffle bags with considerable effort; it was a lot of money, and his upper body strength had never been impressive.

Slamming the trunk shut, Silva shouldered the other two bags and started towards the front of the warehouse. His back was straight despite his burden, and he walked with the heavy, confident gait of a seasoned soldier. Illumi kept pace beside him, staggering under with the weight of the bags, feeling inept. Without a gun in his hand, he would be of little use to his father or anyone else, and he doubted the Troupe would let them bring weapons into the building. He could only hope that Chrollo would be kind enough to free his siblings before killing them both; he didn't want an ugly death to be their last memory of him, or of their father.

They rounded the corner to see Chrollo standing alone in the doorless entryway. The man was dressed the same as he'd been earlier that morning, with the addition of a rifle strap, which cut diagonally across his gray shirt. 

"Where are they?" growled Silva, stopping a few steps from the doorway. 

"Inside," said Chrollo. "I'm afraid I must ask for your weapons before I allow you to see them."

Silva dropped the bags; they hit the tarmac with a muted _thump_. Grateful for a moment of rest, if nothing else, Illumi followed his father's example.

"Here," said Silva, handing over his pistol. "Take it."

Chrollo wordlessly accepted the gun; he turned next to Illumi, who handed over his revolver.

“Knives too, please.” 

Reluctantly, Illumi retrieved the knife from his boot. It wasn’t going to do him any good, anyway—the entire Troupe was doubtless armed with rifles—but he was fond of the thing, and small comfort was better than none. 

"Good," said Chrollo, taking the knife. "Now, here is how this is going to go: you are going to walk in ahead of me, carrying these bags. You will set the bags down in the middle of the room. Once my people ensure the money is there, we will allow you to take the children. If you so much as sneeze without warning, we will kill you, and we will kill the children. Clear?"

"Crystal," said Silva. He stooped to pick up the bags, then, rising with one on each shoulder, headed inside; there was no immediate gunfire, which Illumi supposed was promising.

Heaving his own burden back into place, he followed his father, stepping from the sunlit lot into the relative coolness of the warehouse. He could feel Chrollo close behind, matching his pace.

Killua, Alluka, and Kalluto sat near the door, bound and gagged, watching them pass with wide, hopeful eyes. Illumi smiled at them before trudging on towards, happy at least to see them alive.

He noted of the locations of the spiders as he walked, more out of habit than anything else: two stood guarding the children to his right; three lingered by the doorway behind him, poised to thwart any attempt at escape; three peered at him from behind a pile of boxes to his left; and two stood ahead, at the far end of the building, near a door partly blocked by rubble. Hisoka was among this last pair, holding a rifle in both hands, watching their approach with a blank expression.

Illumi had no illusions about Hisoka. The professed defector was a capricious, unreliable, impulsive man, with a sadistic streak revealed by more than the livid bruises on Illumi's neck. But he was also their only ally in the room, and Illumi hoped the man could see the desperation he felt as he dropped the bags one final time.

"Shalnark, Kortopi," called Chrollo. "Count the money, please."

Two figures emerged from behind the cardboard boxes, setting to the task. Silva stood perfectly still, arms limp at his sides, looking more vulnerable than Illumi had ever seen him.

Excluding the two spiders rummaging at their feet, there were nine people in the room with guns, all aimed at Illumi and his father. There was a lot of money, but, by Illumi’s estimation, it would take less than ten minutes to count it, and by then their lives would be forfeit. Hisoka seemed to be conferring with the woman at his side, no longer watching the commotion in the centre of the room. Illumi resisted the urge to shout his name, to beg him to do something, anything at all. Instead he simply stared, nails biting into his palms, willing the man to match his gaze.

"Why don't you let me untie my children while they count?" said Silva. "That way, when you're finished, they can walk out by themselves."

"There’ll be time for that when we’re done," said Chrollo. "There are enough moving pieces in this room as is."

Silva's hands crumpled into fists, but he did not argue the point. Wind gusted outside, tossing sand at the wall, a low rasp of grit striking metal. 

After an interminably long minute, Hisoka's gaze flicked to Illumi. There was a spark in his eye that Illumi had come to associate with sexual desire, but which also evidently preceded acts of suicidal stupidity. 

The woman at his side dropped into a squat, squinting at the duffle bags, as if looking for something. Shifting the grip on his rifle, Hisoka mouthed:

_Get ready._

Illumi was contemplating how, exactly, Hisoka expected him to get ready when the woman fell forward onto her face. He’d struck her head with the butt of his rifle, quick and clean; though probably not lethal, the move was quieter than a gunshot, which bought a few precious seconds before the rest of the Troupe realized what he’d done. 

Hisoka took the one behind the boxes first. The bullet passed through his temple—not the first hole that had been punched into the man’s heavily pierced face, but certainly the last. Next, he took one of the money-sorters; blood and brain matter seemed to erupt beneath the long gray hair, splattering on Illumi’s mauve slacks.

 _That is going to stain_ , he thought, ducking out of the crossfire. Warm blood was spreading on cold concrete, red and sticky on his bare arm. 

Hisoka had incapacitated one spider and killed two more in the span of less than five seconds. Retaliation was swift and total: every gun in the room swiveled towards the traitor. A woman screamed in raw fury. The air grew thick with bullets.

Keeping low to the ground, Illumi crawled towards the corpse by the boxes; the man’s rifle lay at his side, its strap doused in blood. He snatched the gun just as the pink-haired woman dashed by, still screaming, emptying her magazine with reckless abandon. Newly perforated walls filled the room with dappled light. 

Sure that Hisoka was already dead, Illumi began to turn away—he needed to take out the spiders nearest his siblings—when he saw the woman drop. From behind her an impossible figure emerged, crouched low, staggering with practiced inelegance. Though not dead, he was far from unscathed—his white shirt was soaked red at his midsection, and his grin was stiff and hard, lacking its usual mirth. 

It was difficult to dodge bullets with no cover, and more difficult still to return fire when you were being fired at. Hisoka had provided the initial distraction; now he needed someone to cover his retreat. 

Glancing back, Illumi saw his father grappling with an enormous, dark-haired man. The pink-haired woman was still down, which left six armed spiders to deal with. The closest—a thin, blond man, one of the money counters—was crouched two meters away, firing at Hisoka. Easy pickings. Even with trembling hands, Illumi managed to catch him in the head; he toppled sideways onto the duffle bags, still clutching his rifle. 

Perhaps ten seconds had passed since Hisoka fired the first shot. Illumi had seen three spiders die, and three more were too occupied to shoot. That left five. Chrollo was nowhere to be seen, which made Illumi nervous, but the other four stood in the open. In the collective effort to kill Hisoka, his siblings had been left unattended, so he simply chose the easiest target: a large, blond man standing opposite his hiding place, about five meters away. 

Aiming for the middle of the chest, Illumi squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed its mark, burying itself in the man's bicep instead; he let out a short yelp, then looked directly at Illumi. 

Shit. 

He ducked just in time. The cardboard boxes served to hide him from sight, but provided no real protection; as the wall behind him shuddered beneath a barrage of bullets, Illumi decided it was time to move. He rolled sideways, towards the back of the room, then raised his rifle again. If he could draw attention away from the front, then his father might have time to free his siblings. 

Illumi fired three times, but the man was moving now, and all three missed. The response came much closer—he felt the bullet graze his cheek before it passed through the wall. He was usually an excellent shot, but on an empty stomach and less than three hours of sleep, he did not hold much hope of besting a spider. But he could keep him occupied for a little longer, and perhaps that would be enough. 

As he shuffled sideways on his knees and elbows, exchanging shots with the man, a small object caught Illumi’s eye; it came from the back of the room, near a door that had apparently been forced open (whether it had been forced from the inside or from the outside, he could not tell). It was airborne when he saw it, but rapidly descending, a black shape the size of a fist. 

The blond spider seemed to notice it at the same time. They both scrambled backwards as it struck the ground between them; the grenade erupted in a hiss of blue smoke. 

At least two more grenades followed the first, but soon Illumi could not see them, nor could he see anything else in the room. Eyes burning, he staggered to his feet, heading blindly in the direction of the rear door. To his knowledge, his father hadn’t brought smoke bombs to the scene, so it was probably Chrollo who had thrown them, hoping the remaining spiders would use the cover to escape. 

In any other circumstance, Illumi would have let them go; he and his father were outgunned, and his odds of leaving the warehouse alive were otherwise slim. But the Troupe had taken his siblings, bound them, threatened them, used them as live bait. Nothing less than Chrollo’s death would satisfy his rage, and in the confusion he at last had a chance. 

A shape began to solidify in the smoke, writhing on the ground before him. At first, he couldn’t tell who or what it was; but since it lay near the door, where the smoke was already thinning, he gradually began to discern two figures. Chrollo and Hisoka were fighting like snakes, the latter’s expression strangely euphoric considering he appeared to be losing: Chrollo’s arm was hooked around his throat, squeezing hard enough to turn his face purple. 

Illumi raised his rifle and fired. 

Chrollo’s head was too close to Hisoka’s for comfort, so he’d aimed for the man’s exposed flank; unfortunately his shot skewed left, hitting Hisoka’s shoulder. 

Alerted to his presence, Chrollo tossed Hisoka aside and retreated into the smoke. At some point he’d been disarmed, and he did not seem eager to face an armed Illumi. 

Hisoka fell to the ground, coughing and gasping, bloody spittle dripping from his mouth. Illumi swore and dropped to his knees. 

“You shot me,” croaked Hisoka. 

“I know,” said Illumi, lifting the rim of the man’s shirt. The shoulder wound was not serious, but he’d been hit more than once in the gut, and the blood soaking his clothes was not encouraging. “You’ve been shot a few times.” 

Hisoka did not reply; fighting Chrollo seemed to have taken his last strength. His eyes fluttered shut. His head lolled. He was not dead—Illumi could feel the rattled breaths beneath his palm, which he pressed firmly against the worst wound—but without medical attention, he would be soon. 

Illumi’s gaze flicked through the smoke, but he could not tell which, if any of the dim figures were Chrollo. It seemed he’d lost his chance. But as his eyes fell back to Hisoka, whose face was rapidly losing its color, he realized he could at least save the person who had saved his own life. 

If the spiders were planning to flee, then they would likely exit through the rear—the Troupe’s vehicles were parked out back, and without them, the Zoldycks would easily chase them down—so he needed to get Hisoka away from the door. 

Slipping the rifle strap over his head, Illumi hooked his hands beneath Hisoka’s armpits and began dragging his body aside. From the front, he caught the sound of a car peeling out; he hoped it was Gotoh’s, and that Killua and the others had made it to safety. 

“Idiot,” he muttered to the unconscious Hisoka. “Could have come up with a better plan.” 

Illumi spotted what looked like a broken air conditioner hunkered beneath a shattered window—the only cover available, save for the smoke—and adjusted his direction to make for it. There was just enough space between the machine and the adjacent wall for him to slide into the corner, hauling Hisoka in front. The man’s long legs stuck out comically; reaching over, Illumi did his best to fold them, pulling at the bloodsoaked fabric of his jeans, but quickly abandoned the task. Figures were advancing toward the door; either they were hidden well enough, or they weren’t. Illumi laid his rifle across Hisoka’s chest for easy access, but kept his hands where they were needed most, applying pressure to the wound. 

Chrollo came first, carrying the pink-haired woman; her shirt was dark with blood, courtesy of Hisoka’s bullet, but a low groan confirmed she was alive. Next came the blond man he’d shot in the arm; he was dragging the huge man, whom his father had been fighting, with visible difficulty. A short, black haired man followed, hoisting two of the duffle bags across the threshold. The woman Hisoka had knocked out stumbled close behind, having apparently roused herself at some point during the dispute. Taking up the rear, a lanky man with a ponytail carried the final two bags, his eyes darting from side to side, as if searching for something. There was a moment when Illumi thought they’d been spotted—the man paused at the doorway, his expression grim—but he rushed outside a breath later, following shouts from his comrades. The dead they left behind. 

One engine immediately roared to life. Two more followed almost as quickly; the spiders were off, and the Zoldycks were not far behind. Tires squealed, glass splintered, rifles spat bullets in a familiar staccato beat. Illumi let his head fall back against the wall as the cacophony faded into the distance. For better or for worse, they were gone. 

Wind pushed through the warehouse, stirring the receding smoke. There were three bodies that Illumi could see: the thin blond man he’d shot himself, and the two others Hisoka had taken out. No others remained, living or dead; he could only hope the children made it out unscathed. 

Hisoka’s breath was growing shallow. Beneath the drying blood his lips looked blue, and fresh blood was seeping from his wounds despite Illumi’s efforts. It would be incredibly easy to let him die there. It would even be the wise thing to do. Hisoka had not-so-subtly expressed a desire to kill Illumi; keeping him around was an unnecessary hazard, almost certain to end in grief. 

Still, Illumi hesitated. He leaned forward, pressing his face into the soft, red hair, and was disturbed to find that the man’s perfume was growing on him. His stomach turned at the prospect of Hisoka growing cold beneath his hands, of those sharp yellow eyes shutting on the world forever. Despite everything, he was not ready for Hisoka to die just yet. But what could he do? Calling 911 would be his last resort; cops would get involved, which was always a headache. But the rest of the Zoldycks had fled in pursuit of the Troupe—hadn’t they?

Listening closely, Illumi picked out the sound of footsteps on the tarmac. He peered over the air conditioner, toward the door at his left. A shadow fell across the threshold, and one of his hands dropped automatically to the rifle. He readied himself to shoot. 

The muzzle of a gun appeared first. A man called out: 

“Anyone in here?” 

Illumi relaxed at once, recognizing the voice of his guard.

“Over here, Kurapika.” He pushed Hisoka off himself as best he could, trying to keep one hand on the wound. 

Kurapika holstered his pistol and hurried to the corner. “What happened?” 

“No time.” Illumi hooked one hand beneath Hisoka’s armpit, pulling him to a sitting position. “Suffice to say this man saved our lives. We need to get him to a hospital. Help me.” 

Kurapika grabbed Hisoka’s other arm. Together they hoisted him up; his head rolled forward, and his feet dragged on the concrete. 

As they stepped outside, Illumi saw a corpse on the ground. She lay face down near a black van—one of the Troupe’s—with an exit wound mangling her sandy blonde hair. A pool of blood was drying beneath her, and a pair of flies had begun to assail her face. 

“I told her not to leave the car,” said Kurapika, following his gaze. “She heard the shooting and thought we should slash their tires, in case they tried to flee.” He shook his head sadly. “She managed to disable one van before Chrollo came out and killed her. They all fit in the other one, anyway.” 

Illumi absorbed this in silence. Slashing the tires had been a good idea; if Chrollo hadn’t slinked out in search of smoke bombs, it would have worked. Oh well. A cleanup crew would come soon to retrieve her body. The spiders would be left to rot in the dunes.

As they approached the car, an old man burst out of the passenger’s side, offering assistance; he lifted Hisoka’s legs as Illumi hauled him into the back seat.

“Thank you, Zebro,” he murmured, settling with Hisoka’s head in his lap. Both of his hands returned to the wound, which gushed horribly in the absence of pressure. “My father and siblings are safe, I presume?” 

“Yes,” said Kurapika, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Silva suffered two gunshot wounds, both minor. The children were unharmed.” His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, to Illumi. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” he said, and was surprised to find that this was true. Save the scrape on his face—a close call—he was miraculously uninjured. “But Hisoka is hurt badly.” He licked his lips, trying to ignore the blue tinge spreading across the man’s face. “Please hurry.” 

The world began to move in the cracked car window, and Illumi forced himself not to look down. 

* * *

Elevator doors parted, revealing a clean blue wall. Set against it, a table of burnished wood supported a vase on both ends, each filled with tall, white calla lilies and baby’s breath. Between the flowers, in the centre of the blue wall, hung a mirror in a silver frame, and in this Illumi paused to consider his reflection. 

His hair was sleek and tidy, his teal blazer unbuttoned to expose a white undershirt tucked into matching slacks. His skin was unblemished, save for the scrape on his cheek which had already begun to fade; still, it seemed more visible beneath the hospital fluorescents than it had in his bathroom mirror. The lighting was not doing his complexion any favours, either, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He had come to Yorknew City Hospital to deliver flowers, not to propose marriage, and for that purpose he looked just fine. 

Pivoting on his heel, Illumi started toward the sign labeled “Rooms 1-48.” According to the receptionist, Hisoka had been moved from the ICU a few hours prior. Three days had elapsed since the shootout in the warehouse, and the man had spent half of the first day in surgery. He’d spent most of the second day asleep or doped up on so much morphine Illumi wasn’t sure the man even recognized him, so he hadn’t had a real chance to thank him for his role in the rescue. 

As he ambled along, watching the room numbers increase, a familiar figure emerged near the end of the hall. A black phone was pressed against his blond head, and he was talking in a low voice, so that Illumi could not make out the words. The man did not seem to notice him until he was a few paces away; Illumi summoned him with a wave, and he hastily ended his phone call. 

“Mr. Zoldyck,” said Kurapika. “I just finished talking with Gotoh. They’ve finally located the Troupe’s van—empty, of course. It was about thirty kilometers south of the warehouse, near the coast. He seems to think they fled by boat.” 

“I see.” Illumi had been overseeing the effort to track down the Troupe since losing their trail during the car chase, but they hadn’t found anything until now. “Review the passenger manifests of all ships in the nearest port departing within the last three days.” The spiders wouldn’t be careless enough to use their real names, and they likely stowed away unbeknownst to captain or crew, but it wouldn't hurt to cover all their bases. “Short of that, send the port records to Milluki and have him run the numbers on a probable destination.” 

“Already in progress. I’ll send you the manifests when I get to the office.”

“Good.” Recalling where he was, Illumi was struck by the oddity of Kurapika’s presence. “Did you come here just to tell me that? You could have called.” 

“No, I’m here for the same reason as you. Your friend and I have a mutual interest.” 

“Chrollo,” said Illumi. 

“Yes.” Kurapika averted his gaze, suddenly sheepish. “Also, my boyfriend works at this hospital. Two birds, one stone, you know.”

“Ah.” Illumi paused; he had no interest in Kurapika’s love life, but the prospect of a Hisoka-Kurapika alliance demanded his attention. “You did speak with Hisoka, then?” 

“Yes. He’s awake, or he was when I left.” Kurapika took a step forward. “I’ll get out of your hair now, unless there’s anything—?” 

“There is,” Illumi cut in. “While you're here, there's something I have been meaning to ask.”

“Sir?” 

“You could have joined the other teams in the pursuit. Instead you chose to wait and inspect the warehouse for survivors. Why?”

Kurapika straightened his back, assuming an air of equanimity that Illumi had come to respect. “When I took this job I promised to protect your family. That promise comes before my desire for revenge, or anything else.” He sighed then, seeming to deflate a little. “But if you choose not to pursue the Troupe beyond the boundaries of Zoldyck territory, I may take my leave soon.” 

“I do not think it will come to that,” said Illumi. “My father might have let the Troupe go once, had they fled before kidnapping the children; now there is not a crevice in the world he won't search to find them.” 

“Then I’ll help, while I can.”

“Good. We will need all the help we can get.” Remembering a promise he’d made earlier that morning, Illumi began fishing in his blazer pocket. “Speaking of the children, Alluka insisted I give you this.” 

Kurapika took the flyer from his outstretched hand. “The Wizard of Oz?” he read aloud. 

“Yes. She is playing Dorothy, and asked me to invite you. I know it is short notice—tomorrow night, but—”

“I’ll be there.” Kurapika smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“Good.” Illumi straightened his blazer. “I will save you a seat.” 

Room 44 was three doors down from the end of the hallway. Unlike the room in the ICU, it was equipped with a window, and the natural light lifted Illumi’s spirits—though the sight of Hisoka sitting up in bed, bright eyed and alert, didn’t hurt, either. 

“Illumi,” he said. “What a welcome surprise.” 

Illumi lay the carnations on the bedside table—there was no vase—and settled into the chair by the bed. “I am pleased to see you awake.” 

“Wish I could say I’m pleased to be awake." Hisoka’s gaze flitted to the I.V. pole and back again. “They’re weaning me off the morphine, and there isn’t much that doesn’t hurt.” 

“Ah. Well.” Illumi looked down at his hands. “I am here to thank you, and to apologize for my part in your injury, for what it's worth.” 

“How thoughtful.” Hisoka’s eyes fell on the bouquet, and on the little white card embedded in its centre. He reached across with his left hand (his right arm was bound in a sling) and plucked it out. “Sincerest apologies for your injury,” he read aloud. “I will endeavor to avoid shooting you in the future.” He smiled, setting the card on the table. “You know, it would have been quicker to say ‘Sorry for shooting you, won’t do it again.’” 

“I cannot make that promise.” 

Hisoka snorted. “No, I suppose you can’t.” 

A beat of silence. Illumi pushed his rolling chair with the balls of his feet. “I hear Kurapika is keeping you informed on our progress with the Troupe,” he ventured. 

“That’s right. I told him I’d disclose the locations of the Troupe’s foreign bases, so long as Chrollo was captured alive, but he wouldn’t make that promise without your consent.” 

“I should hope not.” Illumi frowned. “As for my consent, I will think on it.” 

“Well, you have plenty of time.” Hisoka shifted his weight, grimacing. “The spiders are a slippery bunch, and the good doctor says I have a long recovery ahead of me.” 

“Any idea when they will be releasing you?” 

“A week, give or take.”

Illumi cocked his head. “And what then?” 

“For now, I stay in Yorknew. I wait, I recuperate.” He licked his lips. “I am looking forward to our session. I don’t suppose you’d book those laser appointments for me? My schedule is wide open, but it seems I’ve misplaced my phone.” 

“Certainly. And I will buy you a new phone; it is the least I can do to start settling our debt.”

“Oh?” Hisoka’s eyes flashed; that had evidently been the wrong thing to say. “I can think of better ways to settle our debt, Illu. For starters, it’s been _far_ too long since I’ve felt your pretty mouth on my—”

“Keep talking and I will maim your other arm.” 

“No threatening my patients,” came a voice from the door. A lanky, bespectacled man stepped into the room, a clipboard pinned beneath his arm. 

“Thank you, Dr. Paladiknight,” purred Hisoka. “I was beginning to feel unsafe.” 

Illumi rolled his eyes and rose to greet the man. 

“You’re Mr. Morow’s friend?” 

“Yes, I’m his—”

“Boyfriend, actually,” said Hisoka. Illumi shot him a look.

“Ah. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr.…?” 

“Zoldyck. Illumi Zoldyck.” 

“Oh.” The doctor raised his eyebrows, but did not comment on the name. “Well, Mr. Zoldyck, your boyfriend is recovering remarkably well. We hope to have him out of here by next Friday.” 

“Don't rush on my behalf. I’m enjoying the peace of mind afforded by his absence.” 

“He’s joking,” assured Hisoka. 

“Not even a little bit," said Illumi, starting towards the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back at the man in the bed—his boyfriend, apparently. “And Hisoka?” 

“Yes?” 

“Promise me something.” 

His brows lifted expectantly.  
  
“Come to my shop if you plan on getting any more piercings.”

Hisoka let out a laugh, low and rasping thanks to his punctured lung, but nevertheless full of mirth. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't promise a sequel to this, but there's certainly enough loose ends for a one. 
> 
> I have several hisoillu fics planned (set in the main universe), as well as original fiction to work on; I'm a slow writer, so if I do get around to it, it won't be for a while. But I would like to get around to it. Kurapika deserves some closure, and Hisoka needs to get that tattoo. 
> 
> Anyway. Thanks again for reading!


End file.
